


An Unfortunate Distraction

by sirthatsmyemotionalsupportfandom



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alfyn and Therion are mostly implied but we'll see how it goes, Cyrus is an oblivious idiot as always, F/M, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Not really canon compliant but also not not canon compliant either, Surprise There's Plot, Therion's kinda a tsundere in this I'm sorry, mostly slice of lifey and fun but there may be some plot, pretty safe but rated T for violence, takes place after Ophilia's chapter 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26011849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirthatsmyemotionalsupportfandom/pseuds/sirthatsmyemotionalsupportfandom
Summary: Ophilia Clement is an aspiring young cleric, tasked with the most important duty in the entire continent of Orsterra - the Kindling. Though the young Flamebearer shows promise and dedication, she is faced with one irksome distraction - the professor she travels with.
Relationships: Alfyn Greengrass/Therion, Cyrus Albright/Ophilia Clement
Comments: 44
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! I figured I'd give uploading this a shot.
> 
> Octopath Traveler is one of my favorite games and is very close to my heart. The fandom is amazing and I've read fantastic fics from it before, so I wanted to contribute to the community. I discovered the Cyrus/Ophilia ship while I was first dabbling in the fandom and absolutely fell in love with it. I wanted to write for them right away.
> 
> Here are a few notes about this fic:
> 
> I'm going to try to mostly stay canon compliant, but some things may get twisted up or bent. Please be patient with me as I try to stay as accurate as possible.
> 
> I'm aware that in game the tavern is separate from the inn. It just works better with the story this way, and it felt like a small enough change to get away with.
> 
> Though I'm improving daily, I still consider myself very much a novice writer. Reviews and constructive criticism are heavily appreciated.
> 
> Well, I've bored you long enough. Happy reading!

If you spoke with anyone who’d had the pleasure of meeting Professor Cyrus Albright, they would have a lot to say about him. He was, of course, one of the most intelligent people you could ever know, with a seemingly never ending stream of facts and theories spouting out of his mouth at any given time. Other ways he’d be described as were charming, logical, cunning, and an excellent teammate. Personality aside, his discoveries were quite exceptional for his age. He had single handedly accomplished more than many esteemed professors years older than him.

Though at first the man may have sounded nearly flawless, he had one glaring weakness. Cyrus Albright, the famed professor and scholar, had no experience with women. As ridiculous as it sounds, it was true. He was unaware of his own attractiveness and appeal to the opposing gender, and often made them uncomfortable with his thoughtless words and actions. Being so constantly immersed in his studies had restricted him from gaining experience with human emotions.

Nobody knew this better than Ophilia Clement, one of the professor’s fellow travellers and close friends. As a cleric hailing from the snowy town of Flamesgrace, her only goal when she first began her travels was to carry out her duty of performing the Kindling, a sacred ritual that was originally entitled to her adoptive sister. At the last moment, she had taken Lianna’s place and left to travel across Orsterra, a task bigger than any she’d ever had in her life. Her sole goal was to carry out her duty as the Flamebearer, and though making friends along the way was nice, nothing had succeeded to distract her from her mission.

Until Cyrus, that was.

Ophilia knew she was moderately favorable. It had taken years of heads turning whenever she walked through town and whispers of “how lovely!” to draw her to this conclusion. Many boys back in Flamesgrace had attempted to make advances on her, but she would always shoo them away with a disapproving remark and a wry smile. Due to her dedication to her work, she frankly didn’t have time for those things.

This being said, Ophilia could hardly believe people found her interesting at all, if she was honest with herself. Sure, she was pretty, but if she were a man in pursuit of romance, she would be much more interested in stunning women such as H’aanit, the stoic huntress who had first befriended her when she left Flamesgrace, or Primrose, the elegant dancer from the Sunlands. She would hardly pay the soft-spoken cleric without a name for herself any mind.

When she met Cyrus in Atlasdam, something changed. It wasn’t right away, she reassured herself in later hours of shame. No, it was rather a gradual change, from feelings of amity and polite friendliness to feelings that were entirely alien -- and frustrating. She began subconsciously taking note of things she wouldn’t have even noticed before, such as the crystal clear hue the sunlight gave his blue eyes, or how the breeze would tousle his flawless dark hair. All of a sudden, everything he had to say on any subject enamored her. She could sit and listen to him talk about Orsterra’s geological history for hours and be perfectly content. 

And she hated it. It had all been simple up to this point, and now she had to be distracted by something so utterly ridiculous.

What irked Ophilia the most about these feelings was the inevitable fact that Cyrus was nearly unattainable. However clueless he was about it, he attracted women of all ages like a magnet. Ophilia was just another one of the unfortunate girls who had been caught in his trap. It was only a matter of time until he snagged a brave one, who would actually make a move, and . . .

“Ophilia?” H’aanit’s voice broke through Ophilia’s thoughts like a stone shattering a glass window. The cleric blinked hastily, then turned to look at her friend. The huntress was leaning forward, gazing at Ophilia. Her eyebrows were knit together above her jade eyes in concern. “Thou lookest troubled.”

“My apologies, H’aanit,” she said quickly, flashing a small smile. “I was just lost in thought for a moment there.” The huntress nodded in understanding, and took a hearty gulp from the mug sitting on the table in front of her.

Ophilia glanced around the nearly silent tavern. It was early; the sun’s weak rays were just barely shining through the window. Only a few people besides her and H’aanit were sleepily mingling around the dimly lit room. This being said, a few of their teammates were starting to make their way downstairs from the inn on the second floor, shoulders heavy with drowsiness.

Olberic, the tall, hearty soldier was the first to come down, smiling warmly at the two women. Olberic had always been the implicit leader of their group, being the oldest and most experienced. His background in knighthood had made him a firm warrior and strong believer in teamwork. He towered over even the tallest of men, and though he had a stoic, gruff disposition, underneath that was a kindhearted, trustworthy man. Ophilia would be embarrassed to admit it aloud, but Olberic was almost like a father figure to her.

Primrose followed close behind, chatting carelessly with Olberic. Despite how tired she must have been from last night’s merrymaking, she stood up straight, emitting confidence and dignity. Her thick brown hair, pulled into a ponytail, swayed behind her as she walked. Eyes followed her as she passed, but she paid them no mind. She was used to it -- for many years she had been held captive by a greedy man and was forced to dance for visitors at a grimy tavern in Sunshade. Now that she had finally been freed, she didn’t have to perform for anyone.

A few moments later, Tressa the merchant came bounding down the stairs, her face lit up with a smile. Tressa was the very essence of a morning person, always ready to start the day off right. She was one of the most outspoken members of the group, and she had to be for her job. “No one’s going to buy something from a bland merchant,” she would always say, “no matter what the price.” Though she was small, the shortest and youngest of their eight-person group, her loud personality made her stick out -- for better, or for worse.

Tressa strode over and sat down by H’aanit. They struck up a friendly conversation, but Ophilia’s eyes were still trained on the staircase. Three of their members still weren’t here. Alfyn was probably still asleep, Ophilia reasoned with herself, and Therion was probably off picking pockets somewhere. The usual disapproving frown found its way to her face as she pictured the thief stealing candy from some unaware little kid; she wouldn’t put it past him.

But Cyrus was often one of the first people to wake, and his absence slightly worried Ophilia. She knew the scholar could more than handle himself, but her protective nature overrode her common sense, as it so often did.

“Good _morning_ , everybody!” Alfyn’s loud voice rang out as he rushed downstairs, making nearly everyone jump. His straw-colored hair was disheveled and he had bags under his eyes, but he wore a huge smile on his face nonetheless. Ophilia stifled a giggle when she noticed Therion lurking behind him, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. She honestly had no idea how the two of them tolerated each other, but they were rarely seen apart ever since they had joined the party as a duo.

“Ah, there you are, Alfyn!” Olberic boomed. “Good to see you, friend.” He clapped the man on the back, then nodded at Therion trailing behind. “Morning, Therion.” The thief grunted in reply, proceeding to sit down at the bar near Ophilia’s table, slowly and gingerly. He was probably still suffering from the side wound he’d received the other day during a rough scrape with some robbers. Alfyn, who had undoubtedly noticed, followed him over. Ophilia couldn’t help but listen in on their conversation while she continued to watch the stairs.

“Was that a wince I saw?” Alfyn accused teasingly, sliding onto the seat next to Therion, who scoffed.

“You might be seeing things, medicine man.”

“Listen, I _know_ you’re still hurting from that fight yesterday. You can’t just walk off everything, ya know.” Alfyn’s good-natured demeanor had slid into a concerned and slightly frustrated one in a matter of seconds. He had been the self-assigned medic of the group ever since he joined, having years of experience as an apothecary, and he hated nothing more than seeing someone hurt. “If you would just let me look at it -”

“It’s fine,” Therion snapped, clearly in a bad mood. “I think I can tell when I need medical treatment and when I don’t.” Therion had always been a lone wolf type, and he wasn’t used to sympathy from others, bringing him to the point where he’d often downright reject it. This obviously didn’t mix well with Alfyn’s constant desire to help people, and to make long stories short, this was far from the first time there had been an argument like this.

Alfyn sighed. “Listen, if you don’t want me to, at least let Ophilia take a look, or even acknowledge and treat the wound yourself. You can’t keep pretending that you aren’t hurt -- it’s only gonna make things worse.” His tone of voice had changed from the goofy, mellow voice they all knew so well to the serious, reproving one that surfaced when he was treating someone.

Ophilia expected Therion to snap back again, but he only hummed dejectedly. “Fine, whatever. I’m too tired to argue about this right now. You can have a look if you care so much. _Later_.”

“Shucks. Thank you.” Alfyn slouched in relief.

Ophilia tuned the conversation out as she looked to the stairs again. Where was Cyrus?

“You okay, Phili?” Tressa asked, noticing the cleric’s worried expression.

“Yes, ist thou feeling well? Thou hath not been yourself as of late,” H’aanit agreed, the concerned look returning as she glanced over.

“Oh, I’m just -- I’m just wondering where the professor is,” Ophilia stammered, caught off guard.

H’aanit merely raised her eyebrows, while Tressa sat up straight and scanned the room. “You’re right, where’s Cyrus at?” she mused.

“Linde is gone as welle,” H’aanit observed, referring to the empty space where her leopard companion once sat. “When I awoke, she wast here, but she must have left whilst I was distracted. She may have gone to hunt, but this early in the day . . .”

As if on cue, the tavern door swung open, and Cyrus strode into the room. Following closely behind him was Linde, head held high. Some of the tavern visitors murmured in shock at the sight of a huge snow leopard walking through the tavern, but most of the team was used to it by now. The duo made their way to the table where the three women sat, Linde taking a place by her master and Cyrus taking the seat next to Ophilia. She could feel her cheeks flushing, and her heartbeat quickened against her will. She bit her lip in frustration. _Calm down,_ she scolded herself. _You’ve been traveling with him for_ months. _Can we please stop doing this every time he walks by?_

Her heart apparently disagreed; it continued to beat abnormally fast, to her annoyance.

“Where hast thou been?” H’aanit asked, scratching behind Linde’s ears absentmindedly.

“Yeah, Phili was getting pretty worried over here,” Tressa commented, making Ophilia’s cheeks redden even more.

“Well, it was strange for him to be so late,” she attempted to defend herself, straightening.

“Yes, well it _is_ unusual of me to be late, and I apologize for worrying you,” he replied, flashing an apologetic smile at Ophilia, who looked down in embarrassment. “You see, I headed out early this morning to do some reading at the local library.”

“Of course,” Tressa disguised in a cough. Ophilia shot her a look and she shrugged, smiling.

“Linde came searching for me, no doubt because of my tardiness. On the way out, however, I ran into a friendly stranger who had some information I found most intriguing,” Cyrus continued, leaning forward, “about rumors of treasure nearby.”

Tressa leaned forward too, her interest piqued by the idea of gold. “Spill,” she ordered in a hushed, almost reverent voice.

“Apparently, it’s a common legend here that in the underground waterways below town, someone left massive amounts of treasure many years ago,'' Cyrus began, his eyes lighting up as they always did when he talked about something he found interesting. “Now, I’m not one to believe in simple hearsay, but there’s another thing to consider. Many have searched for it, but haven’t got far due to the inane amounts of monsters inhabiting the waterways. I wouldn’t think there’d be so many monsters in a simple waterway for no reason. So, I was thinking -”

Tressa hopped up. “That we go check it out?” she interrupted, eyes already blazing with excitement.

He nodded, smiling slightly at the girl’s exuberance. “Precisely. I figured we might as well give it a chance, right?” Tressa nodded vigorously, clearly itching to leave as soon as possible, but Cyrus kept talking.

“A four-person party would probably suffice. Of course I’d be going, and . . .” he shot a glance at Tressa, “. . . Tressa is free to come as well.”

“I’ll go, too,” Therion piped up from the bar, apparently listening in. Alfyn shot him an exasperated look that he promptly ignored. “I’m always up for a little treasure hunt.” 

Tressa rolled her eyes a little less than discreetly, and the thief raised an eyebrow. Everyone knew that Therion and Tressa detested each other. Therion thought Tressa was just a stuck-up, wannabe shopkeeper, while the latter refused to respect Therion’s profession -- AKA, stealing.

“Very well, then,” Cyrus agreed, oblivious to the tension. He turned to Ophilia. “From what I’ve heard, these monsters are no ordinary sort. We could use someone with your radiant magic in case they prove to be abnormally dangerous. Will you come?”

“Of course.” She nodded, subduing her excitement under a small smile. It had been some time since she’d been invited into a party for a minor quest, and she was eager to get out of the inn.

“Well, then, we’ll leave after everyone finishes eating.”

“ _And_ after I’ve taken a look at Therion’s side,” Alfyn said firmly, seizing Therion by the wrist and practically dragging him upstairs despite his complaints.


	2. Chapter 2

As the four travelers clambered down the slippery stone stairs, Ophilia looked around at the surprisingly large underground corridor. It was dimly lit by torches bolted to the stone walls, with water running through a large canal that shot through the middle of the corridor. The air was dank and wet, and thick moss and vines crept over the bricks that made up the floors and walls. She wasn’t sure, but Ophilia could’ve sworn she saw rats skittering across the floor.

“Lovely place,” Therion remarked, breaking the silence.

“Ha, ha,” Tressa responded sarcastically. “So where'd you think this treasure is?” She called this out to Cyrus, who was leading the way, lantern in hand.

“Patience, Tressa,” Ophilia said, scanning the area around her. “We can’t have a good idea of where it is just yet.”

“Not exactly, though I do think it would be that way.” Cyrus pointed forward to the corridor just ahead of them, as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“What about the other way?” Therion asked, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, to where the corridor ran the opposite direction as well. “How do we know it isn’t over there?”

“It may be possible, but look.” Cyrus lifted up his lantern to shed light on several rats running away from the corridor ahead. Tressa jumped at the sight, then adjusted her vest in embarrassment. “So many of them, and they all seem to be running from something. Though we can’t be sure, there’s a chance they’re running from monsters.”

“And the monsters are guarding the treasure!” Tressa said in realization.

“Precisely.” Cyrus nodded.

Therion shrugged. “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

Silence fell over the group as they began walking down the cold corridor, the anticipation quieting them. They had heard rumors about the powerful monsters -- where were they?

This unspoken question was answered after about ten minutes of walking, when a group of skeletal creatures rose from the bricks. The bones flew together to form all sorts of different things; some appeared humanoid, while others more closely resembled horses or sheep. They all wore thin yet sturdy-looking armor. Therion was the first to draw his blade.

“These guys clearly aren’t friendly,” he said, holding his dagger loosely in his hand. “What’s the plan, Prof?” In their team it was customary to let the leader of the expedition make the first decisions, and currently that was Cyrus. The group all turned to look at him. He was studying the enemies, who were coming nearer by the second, closely.

“They’re undead, clearly subject of dark matter or necromancy. Weak to light magic. Ophilia!” he called out, shooting her a knowing glance.

She nodded and ran forward. “May the sacred Flame shine forth!” she chanted, holding her staff up. White beams struck from above, engulfing the enemies. The noises they let out were so terrible that Ophilia nearly covered her ears. They were full of fear, pain, and . . . anger. It felt like it echoed throughout her mind and soul.

“Phili, we could really use some help!”

Ophilia realized in sudden shock that she had been standing rigid on the spot. Her magic had killed a few of the monsters but a couple still remained. Tressa, who had called out, was attempting to pierce through one of the skeletal warrior’s armor with her spear. Out of the corner of her eye, Ophilia saw one of the skeletal sheep crumble into dust, leaving Therion’s dagger plunged into empty space.

On her other side, she saw one of the humanoid ones stalking towards her, mere feet away. Turning on her heel, she rushed forward and swung her staff, but it blocked it with the finely made sword she hadn’t noticed it carrying moments before. She sidestepped and dashed quickly around it, striking it in the back -- a method Olberic had once taught her. Apparently, she had hit a weak spot; her staff cleaved straight through the thin leather armor and hit bone.

The skeleton screeched in anger. The sound was even worse this time, and Ophilia covered her ears, staggering backwards and lowering her weapon. The skeleton whirled around and slashed its sword at her, leaving a cut across her right arm. She cried out at the sting and took her hands off of her ears, backing away quickly. The skeleton eyed her fiercely, twirling the blade around in its hand. She held her staff in front of her as a defense, waiting for the perfect opportunity to counterstrike. To her dismay, however, her heel hit the ledge, and she almost went toppling into the water flow feet below. It was too close range to use magic, and if she moved too broadly she’d fall. Panicked, she swung her staff at the skeleton, hoping to deter it from pushing her over the edge.

“Oh, ice, pierce them through!” Cyrus’s familiar incantation rang throughout the corridor. The ground rumbled, then icicles of all sizes shot out of the stone, impaling the remaining skeletons. The warrior that was such a threat to Ophilia seconds ago crumbled to the floor, lifeless once again.

The cleric exhaled harshly, lowering her staff. She felt faint, as she always did when she expelled a lot of her magic at once, and she bent over to breathe. Therion whistled. 

“Huh,” he gasped. “Their defense was amateur but they were unusually strong. Put up a good fight.”

“For once, we agree,” Tressa panted, her spear still held up in a defensive position. Cyrus said nothing, and briskly strode over to Ophilia, who was still standing in the same spot. Each of his icicles melted away as he passed them.

“We all have our rough battles, but that was unusual for you,” he said in concern, grabbing her arm and pulling her away from the edge. “You’re usually so focused, but your mind seemed elsewhere this time. Are you all right?”

“Didn’t their -- their screams _bother_ you?” Ophilia asked shakily. Cyrus tilted his head, puzzled.

“I’ve heard a lot of screaming monsters in my day,” he mused. “These ones didn’t particularly affect me.”

“Me neither,” Tressa said, walking over to the two of them. “I mean, they were horrible, but not so horrible that it made me . . .” she trailed off. In the background, Therion shrugged.

“I don’t know why they affected me in the way they did, but it nearly paralyzed me,” Ophilia stammered. “They were just so . . . rageful sounding. I’m sorry I got distracted.”

“Well, we’re all still alive, aren’t we? So no harm done, my dear,” Cyrus replied, smiling. Despite all the distraction, Ophilia felt a flicker of annoyance. There it was again -- it drove her up the wall when he used the pet names. Of course, he did it for almost everyone. It was just how _casually_ he would say it, oblivious to all the feelings it gave her. Realizing her thoughts had wandered again, she quickly attempted to smile back, still troubled by the situation. 

Therion walked up to join the group. “I can help you with that,” he muttered, pointing at the cut on the cleric’s arm, which was turning an odd yellow color. “No offense, but you probably shouldn’t be using your magic in that state. It looks like poison. Alfyn gave me some stuff for my side, and . . .” He faded into silence as Ophilia nodded, holding out her arm. He quickly bandaged it, putting some sort of salve on the wound beforehand, with surprising gentleness.

“That’ll do for now,” he said, backing away as he finished. “But you should probably run it by Alfyn when we get back.”

Ophilia nodded again, smiling. “Thank you, Therion.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Don’t.” He turned away, his good deed of the day apparently done.

Meanwhile, Cyrus was studying her, his smile gone. “You’re shivering,” he observed, and hastily began undoing the clasp on his cloak. Her face already heating up, Ophilia attempted to protest.

“That -- that really isn't necessary, Professor,” she said, holding her hands up in a desperate attempt to convince the man that she wasn’t about to collapse. “I’m used to the cold. And I have my cloak already.”

“Your cloak alone doesn’t appear to be sufficient. I insist,” he replied firmly, wrapping the large cloak around her and clasping it in the front.

And there was no changing his mind.

The group continued walking, not knowing where they were headed and frankly too scared to ask. Ophilia brought up the rear, the flame in her face finally dying.

Though she hated being fussed over, she was admittedly warmer, and the shivering had almost ceased. The black cloak, a size or two bigger than what was probably best for someone her size, dragged on the floor behind her. She tried to draw her thoughts away from the fact that it smelled rather nice.

It always bothered her how Cyrus would just _do_ stuff like that. Like it was normal. Ophilia knew fully well he was just trying to be a gentleman, but he was so clueless at times that it made things all the harder for her. How was she supposed to avoid her feelings when he did this kind of thing on the daily? There was one memory in particular that stuck out among the rest, and Ophilia couldn’t help but smile hopelessly at the thought.

_The high temperature of Quarrycrest was something Ophilia wasn’t quite used to yet. Harsh sunlight bore down on the group, filling all but Tressa, who was used to warm weather, with exhaustion._

_Both Cyrus and Tressa had business here, and as soon as Tressa had wrapped up hers, Cyrus was anxious to get started on his._

_Currently, Tressa was explaining to H’aanit how she made sales, but Ophilia’s attention was on Cyrus, who was poring over a letter with deep focus. As soon as he folded the letter closed, she walked over to join him._

_“Professor, may I ask what that letter was about?” she piped up. “It seemed most engrossing.”_

_Cyrus nearly jumped at her voice, clearly lost in thought. “Oh, that?” he asked, turning towards her. “It was a message warning me about women.”_

_“Huh?” Ophilia said, louder than she’d meant to, a blush threatening to surface. What on earth did he mean by that?_

_“What it actually said was that I should be careful how I act toward women,” Cyrus continued, sounding far too casual. “Lest I give cause for misunderstandings.”_

Oh, _Ophilia though, her shoulders relaxing. “Well, intelligence such as yours can be very attractive,” she blurted out, regretting her words the moment they left her mouth._

_He shook his head solemnly. “Please, my dear. A word such as ‘attractive’ must be kept in reserve for those of great beauty, such as yourself.”_

_Ophilia had been called beautiful before, but never had it carried as much weight as it did then. The blush that had been threatening to surface finally did so. “Erm . . .” she stammered, unsure of what to say next. “I think maybe that’s the kind of thing the letter writer was talking about.”_

_Cyrus tilted his head in confusion. “You think so? But I was merely speaking my mind. Am I not allowed to tell a beautiful woman that she is just that?”_

_Ophilia’s face was definitely aflame now. How was he so smart yet so clueless? It bewildered her. “Well . . .” She chose her words carefully, smiling nervously. “Sometimes you can. But maybe in your case, you shouldn’t.”_

_“Tsk.” He shook his head again, still clearly confused. “I am finding this most difficult to understand.”_

_Ophilia laughed softly and turned away, wondering if he’d ever understand._

The cleric nearly laughed as she came to the realization that nothing had changed since then. He really had no idea what he was doing, did he?

She had noticed it come out with others, too. Cyrus was just so unknowingly charming. He spoke smoothly and complemented others effortlessly -- it was no wonder he gained fans nearly wherever he went. Ophilia was far from the only one he had put in an awkward situation.

_And yet . . ._ She looked at the dark-haired scholar, boldly leading the group ahead. _If nothing else, at least I have the pleasure of his friendship._ It was true he could be difficult at times, but Ophilia was glad to travel with him. He was fascinated with what she had to say about her duty as the Flamebearer, always asking multiple questions when she spoke on the matter. She wasn’t necessarily bothered by this, though, because it allotted time for them to spend together. Being brought up with a higher education than many others also benefited Ophilia in her conversations with the scholar.

“You guys see that, too?” Therion said, rousing everyone from their own thoughts. He extended a finger, pointing at a stone chest about two feet tall, sitting in the middle of the path several feet ahead.

Tressa narrowed her eyes as they got closer. “Is that . . . it?” she asked uncertainly, stepping forward. Therion’s arm shot out, stopping her.

“Careful,” he warned. “It’s probably a trap.” Noiselessly and almost gracefully, he crept towards the chest, sliding his dagger into his hand. Keeping a cautionary distance, he tapped the chest tentatively with the blade. When nothing happened, he slid it into the crack and gently lifted the lid up. Everyone tensed in anticipation, but once again, nothing happened. 

“I think it’s safe,” Therion said after a few seconds of waiting, “but be on your guard.” He raised his dagger and flipped the lid open. Tressa rushed forward, with Cyrus and Ophilia close behind.

“Huh,” she faltered, her eyes lighting up with intrigue. It was implicit that everyone had expected coins and jewels. But the contents were so varied that the group was taken aback. Ancient jewelry was scattered around the box, studded with unnameable gems. A faded deck of cards with dragons inked onto the faces was bound by a worn leather cord. Several old, yellowing books were stacked neatly in the corner. Various other trinkets littered the box, but Ophilia was unsure of what they could be.

“Well,” Cyrus murmured, crouching over the box, “this isn’t quite what I thought the ‘treasure’ would be, but it’ll do just as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such a hard time with writing fight scenes, but hopefully you enjoyed it anyways! As always, constructive criticism is welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

The chilled dusk air whipped H’aanit’s face, signaling the oncoming storm. But if the woman was affected by the cold, she didn’t show it. She strode so briskly that even the long-legged Alfyn had to jog to keep up with her. Linde led the way ahead of them, the wind ruffling her silver fur.

“Ist thou suren that thy herbs will work?” she questioned the shivering apothecary, whose full bag was significantly slowing him down.

“S-sure as I can be,” Alfyn responded through chattering teeth. “These are as close to the cure for the common cold as you can get. We’re lucky, though; they’re about to go out of season."

“Goode.” H’aanit turned to face ahead again. “It worryeth me when Lady Primrose hides her illness. Her fit of coughing earlier raisened my alarm.”

“Yeah, it’s not too uncommon for Prim to do stuff like that,” Alfyn replied. “She tends to overexert herself. Doesn’t really know when to take a break.”

“It is of no use to do so,” H’aanit said, shaking her head. “She is juste as bad as Therion.”

Alfyn laughed at the remark. “Aw, yeah. They’re kinda a problematic bunch, those two.”

Ahead of the two, Linde was sitting regally at the inn door. The innkeeper tremulously opened the door and relaxed slightly when he saw the pair approaching behind her. It had taken some work convincing him to let Linde stay in a room with H’aanit, but he didn’t seem too keen on arguing with the intimidating huntress and her snow leopard either, so they had won out in the end.

H’aanit and Alfyn entered behind Linde. Alfyn flashed the innkeeper a friendly smile as they passed, while H’aanit merely inclined her head curtly. Quickly, they made their way upstairs and towards the room Primrose and Tressa were sharing. A dim light flickered from under the door, and dull chatter could be heard from inside. Alfyn knocked lightly on the door.

“Everyone decent in there?”

“I should hope so,” Olberic’s voice boomed through the door. With a small chuckle, Alfyn pushed open the door.

Inside, Primrose sat cross legged atop one of the beds, holding a bowl of broth. Her decorative dancer wear had been replaced by a light nightgown, lent by some kind soul no doubt. Olberic sat in a small wooden chair that practically creaked under his enormity, with arms folded. The blankets, for some reason, had been torn off the bed and settled in a heap on the floor.

“Ya called for herbs?” Alfyn asked with a sympathetic smile, already taking his pack off and walking over.

“You could say that,” he replied gruffly. “Only if you can convince her to take them.”

“It isn’t that drastic,” Primrose snapped, temper clearly running high. “I could just sleep it off. What’s the big fuss about?”

“Tis not just the illness,” H’aanit said, sitting on the bedside, “but the fact that thou lied about it as well.” Her voice was soft, yet firm.

“She has a point,” Olberic agreed, turning to Primrose as Alfyn began to lay out his equipment on the other bed. “We can’t function as a team if we don’t know these things. What if something happened in battle that we weren’t expecting because you didn’t tell us?”

“It’s just a _cold_ ,” Primrose countered through her teeth. “People get sick. It happens. I doubt it would’ve seriously affected my performance in battle.”

“But thou madest an effort to mask thy symptoms,” H’aanit put in, the patience fading from her voice. “Why wouldst thou do such a thing?”

“Comin’ through,” Alfyn interrupted, walking in between H’aanit and Olberic with a small bowl full of green paste in his hand. He set it down next to Primrose. “Take a spoonful of this and let it rest on your tongue for a minute or so before swallowing. Do this every day when you get up an’ before you go to bed until the swelling in your tonsils goes down.” He smiled sheepishly. “It . . . doesn’t taste that great, sorry. I tried to sweeten it up with some berries, but -”

“It’ll do,” Primrose cut in, a bit of the ice melting from her expression. “My thanks.”

The room fell silent for a moment. “This conversation is far from over,” Olberic reminded Primrose sternly before standing up and stretching. She rolled her eyes and put a dollop of the paste in her mouth. Her face scrunched up almost instantly.

Alfyn laughed. “I _did_ warn you.”

Linde, who had been lying sleepily at the side of the bed, suddenly stiffened, her ears perking up. Though no one else paid it too much mind, H’aanit was immediately at her side.

“Linde? What troublest thou?” she murmured, stroking her fur. A low growl emanated from the leopard’s throat as her eyes remained trained pointedly at the door. H’aanit stood up, bow already in hand, and nocked an arrow suspiciously. Olberic looked alertly at the closed door, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword set down on a nearby table. Even Alfyn glanced at his axe sitting on the bed cautiously.

The door swung open, and Therion walked in. The thief was never surprised, but he looked almost so when he saw H’aanit’s arrow aimed directly at his chest. “Okay, what’d I do this time?” he asked. He smirked, but a wary edge flashed in his cold eyes.

Everyone relaxed.

“Tis just thou,” H’aanit exhaled, lowering her bow. “Linde wast vexed, I thought -”

“I figured you’d have caught on by now, but that cat of yours doesn’t seem to like me much.” Therion slid his hand into a pocket, retrieving an apple and biting into it.

“We’re a bit on edge at the moment,” Olberic said, finally taking his hand from his sword.

“And what’s got you in such a good mood?” Alfyn asked, raising an eyebrow at Therion. The others in the room looked at him incredulously, as Therion looked to be in the same mood he was always in. Then again, Alfyn had a way of reading him, and it didn’t seem to be off the mark this time either.

“See for yourself,” Therion replied. He walked into the room, allowing passage for Tressa, grinning widely and holding a heavy-looking chest that she carried surprisingly effortlessly. Cyrus and Ophilia trailed behind, both smiling as well.

“Ah, so you’ve found the treasure,” Olberic commented, raising a bushy eyebrow as Tressa set it down on the bedside table.

“That’s it?” Primrose said incredulously, eyeing its small size.

“It seems to be so,” Cyrus answered, opening the chest. “We spent a few hours surveying the area after finding it, but there were no more winnings to be found. And what we did find is . . . unique.”

“How so?” Alfyn rushed over, face aglow with curiosity, to observe the treasure. H’aanit was close behind, but Olberic, looking quite weary, remained where he sat.

“I have already claimed the books I’m afraid,” Cyrus informed hurriedly, snatching them from the open box before anyone else could steal them.

“It’s mostly just old jewelry and books,” Tressa explained, “but there are some interesting trinkets in here that I have a feeling will sell pretty well.”

“Some of the jewelry _is_ rather lovely,” Ophilia said, pulling out a sapphire necklace and clipping it around her neck. “I may keep this one.”

“Hey, leave something in there for me,” Primrose protested from the bed, clearly annoyed with not having a clear view of the loot.

“ _You_ didn’t find it,” Tressa reminded her, peeling her eyes away from the treasure for a brief moment to stick her tongue out.

“Not the best haul,” Therion shrugged, tossing the deck of cards from one hand to the other. “But I did get this nice set of cards, so it’s not a complete loss.”

“Ah, thou likest cards?” H’aanit’s face lit up. “Hast thou played ‘Thistlejack’?”

“ . . . Don’t think so,” Therion replied aversely, clearly caught off guard by her sudden interest.

“Fear not, for I shall teach thee! Let us find a suitable table!” she exclaimed good-naturedly, whipping the door open and strolling outside. Therion stood still for a second, seeming to contemplate whether he really wanted to follow or not. Then, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he followed the huntress downstairs, leaving the amused remainder of the group to continue sorting through the treasure.

* * *

“Ophilia, dearest, could you help me if you have a moment?”

The cleric in question looked up from her meal in surprise, a forkful of food halfway to her mouth. Cyrus was gazing down at her brightly, awaiting her response. Though her focus was on the professor, Primrose’s smirk was large enough to see out of the corner of her eye.

“Oh -- of course, professor, but could you give me a moment to finish my dinner?” she responded, feeling her cheeks heat up. He put a palm to his forehead as he noticed her food for seemingly the first time.

“Right, right. Not to worry, I’ll just bring it here!” Without further explanation, he turned on his heel and hurried out of the room. Unsure of what to do, Ophilia hesitantly brought her fork to her mouth at last, only vaguely noticing the creamy flavor of the pasta she had ordered. Her eyes flitted back over to Primrose and Tressa, who both sat across from her grinning.

“What?” she asked, after swallowing her food. Neither of them answered, but instead continued to eat, smiling like they were sharing an inside joke. Ophilia narrowed her eyes, and continued to eat as well, feeling slightly annoyed. She was still feeling a little lightheaded from earlier, but rest had done her some good. Everything was better taken at a slow pace, though, as many of her companions constantly reminded her.

A moment later, a large book was dropped very suddenly onto the table next to her, and she jumped a mile.

“My apologies, didn’t mean to startle you,” Cyrus said, slipping into an adjacent chair. “While you finish your meal, I’ll explain the situation. I heard you speaking with Olberic the other day about knowing Madric?”

“Madric?” Tressa questioned loudly, apparently invested in the conversation.

“It’s an ancient Riverlandic language that’s faded over time,” Ophilia explained, before turning back to Cyrus. “And yes, I do speak it.”

He smiled. “Not a surprise coming from you.” Gesturing to his book, Ophilia noticed the runes inscribed on the cover. “As you can probably see, this book I found in the chest is written entirely in Madric, and the other books have certain passages written in it. I was hoping, if it isn’t too much of an inconvenience, that you’d like to help me translate it?”

Ophilia nodded, swallowing. “It would be my pleasure. But really,” a mischievous smile crept across her face as she looked at him, “you don’t know Madric? And you call yourself a scholar.”

Looking taken aback, Cyrus began formulating an answer. “Well, you see, I haven’t had the opportunity to -”

“I’m merely teasing, Professor,” she interrupted, laughing softly. “Madric is a rather obscure, almost forgotten language. It’s no wonder you’ve never learned it. I’m lucky even to have been exposed to it.”

“Oh.” The professor smiled uncertainly. “Well then,” he brushed his clothes off and stood up, “shall we work on it after dinner?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“You have my thanks.” 

“Why don’t you sit with us and grab a drink, Professor?” Primrose offered sweetly, smiling up at him in an almost viperlike way. “You’re more than welcome to stay.”

“Ah, no thank you, my dear,” he replied hesitantly, looking slightly nervous at Primrose’s tone of voice. “I really should get started on my studies right away. Perhaps another time.” Picking up his book, he turned and headed to the stairs, accidentally bumping into Therion and H’aanit’s table and scattering cards everywhere. The two had been playing multiple heated rounds of Thistlejack for hours now. Ophilia smiled at the sight of the professor hastily apologizing to their frustrated curses and complaints.

Feeling eyes on her, she turned to see both Primrose and Tressa grinning at her once again.

“Seriously, what is it?” she asked, attempting to sound defiant.

“Studying after dinner?” Primrose cocked an eyebrow. Her normal, solemn expression had melted into one of deep amusement.

“Wha -”

Tressa put one hand to her forehead and the other to her heart dramatically. “Oh, Ophilia my dear, my beautiful flower!” she cried, in an exaggerated impression of Cyrus. “I would be so _very_ pleased if you’d help me translate my ever-so-interesting books! Did I mention how pretty you are?”

“Quiet, both of you,” Ophilia fumed, face hot, her dinner long forgotten. She was painfully aware of the many stares Tressa had attracted. “It is merely professional. We’re just two friends who help each other with studies when convenient.”

“Yeah.” Primrose rolled her big, emerald eyes. “Two friends who make eyes at each other while talking about books.” Tressa snorted.

Ophilia glared at them, and they fell silent, still smiling.

“You two are going to get your comeuppance someday, mark my words,” she retorted, sipping her drink. 

“Hey, Alfyn, where are you headed? It’s getting late.” Tressa cast the previous conversation to the side momentarily and looked over Ophilia’s shoulder at the apothecary, who was heading past them towards the door.

“Just off to find some herbs real fast,” he replied cheerily. “I’ve heard there’s a real rare kind around here, and I wanna get ‘em as soon as I can so I can figure out some new remedies.”

“We’re lucky you’re such an overachiever,” Primrose said, “or else half of us would be dead by now.” Then she closed her eyes as a sudden, painful-sounding cough shook her body. Tressa patted her back in concern.

Alfyn laughed, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “Just keep takin’ your medicine, Prim. I’ll see you guys in a bit!” Tripping out the door, he disappeared into the darkness outside.

“Do you think he’ll be safe all by himself?” Ophilia worried. “Did you see those clouds earlier? A winter storm is on its way. Maybe I should go with him.”

“Oh, come on, Phili,” Tressa said, scarfing down her food once again. “Just because the guy’s a big puppy doesn’t mean he can’t bite. He can more than handle himself.”

“Besides, you simply _can’t_ miss your date,” Primrose added, batting her eyes exaggeratedly. The two of them sniggered.

Ophilia closed her eyes. “Aelfric give me patience.”

* * *

Hours later, Ophilia found herself huddled over a book in the nearly empty tavern, Cyrus at her side. The duo had spent an hour or two on the basics of Madric. Ophilia had taught Cyrus basic words and phrases, so he could at least begin to make sense of some of it, and, unsurprisingly, he picked it up quickly. Now they sat at the dimly lit table in sort of a routine; Ophilia would translate the passages out loud, and Cyrus would transcribe them into one of his many journals, taking an abundance of notes. There wasn’t much open space for them to converse, except for the occasional “fascinating” or “so does that mean . . .?”

Despite this, Ophilia’s nerves were still getting the best of her. This was the first time in a while that the two were spending one on one time together (excepting the instances during the earlier hours of the session where Primrose or Tressa just “happened” to stroll by,) and she wasn’t sure what to say or do. She and the professor had always gotten along fairly well -- their personalities had clicked from the moment they had met. But that was always in a group setting. This was different. Luckily, there wasn’t much time for small talk -- Ophilia did her job and Cyrus did his.

And then there were the times when she got distracted. When their arms would happen to brush and warmth shot up from Ophilia’s arm into her face, though the professor didn’t seem to notice. When the musty smell of the old books was masked for a moment by the pleasant, refreshing smell of Cyrus. He smelled like something unique -- ginger maybe? Then Ophilia would snap back to reality, mortified that she would pay so much thought to what Cyrus smelled like, and attempt to redirect her attention to the texts they were deciphering.

“Well, I think it’s best that we wrap up for tonight,” Cyrus said after they had translated a particularly difficult passage. He shut his book. “It’s well into the night, and you could use some sleep.”

“Me? What about you?” Ophilia inquired, shutting her book as well.

He smiled wearily. “Over the years as a scholar I’ve developed quite a savvy for making it through the day off of two hours asleep, but I will admit it’s not quite healthy.”

Ophilia laughed lightly. “As you wish, Professor.”

“You know, there’s no need for you to call me ‘Professor’ all the time, dearest,” Cyrus commented, tilting his head. “We’re friends, aren’t we? And partners now, too, it would seem.”

 _Partners._ Her heart skipped a beat at the term.

“Of course, Pr -- Cyrus,” she corrected herself, trying to remain nonchalant. “May I assume we’ll be doing this again, soon?”

“If you’d like to,” he said, eagerly. “I could always learn to do it myself, but it goes so much quicker with two people, especially when the other person is fluent. Besides,” he began stacking the books atop each other, “you really are a delight to work with.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” Ophilia replied, turning to face the other direction so he wouldn’t see her go crimson. “I would love to help when I can.”

“I suppose that’s settled, then,” the professor answered warmly.

“Oh, bloody -- he’s not down here, either?”

The two jumped at the voice, and turned in surprise to see Therion trudge down the stairs. Though it was so late, there was no trace of fatigue in the thief’s eyes. He was still fully dressed, with his violet cloak wrapped around his shoulders carelessly.

“And what has you up at this hour?” Cyrus asked curiously.

“Alfyn hasn’t come back yet, has he?” Therion said sharply, eyes narrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making equally long chapters? Couldn't be me 😶  
> But anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

“Come on, use those pretty brains of yours. Have you seen our apothecary?”

Ophilia and Cyrus looked at each other. Neither of them spoke, but what they were both thinking was clear -- neither of them had seen the apothecary since he’d left earlier that evening.

“I haven’t,” Ophilia replied slowly, “but it’s possible we just didn’t notice him come in.” Though as the words left her mouth, she knew they weren’t true. Alfyn certainly wasn’t the type you wouldn’t notice, and they all knew it.

“Well, unless he’s hidden in the gods forsaken cupboards, I don’t think so,” Therion retorted. “He’s not in the room, and he’s clearly not down here getting hammered either.” He ran a hand through his coarse, silvery hair. “Bloody Flame above, I _knew_ this was going to happen. I should’ve stopped him.”

“Ah, so you know why he left?” Cyrus inquired, concerned but curious as ever.

“He wanted to get something for my side,” Therion huffed. “It . . . hasn’t been looking so good lately, and that guy just doesn’t know when to quit. Insisted on getting me medication and left without another word. I don’t know what that idiot was thinking, going alone.”

Ophilia blinked. She hadn’t known that side of the story. “Why didn’t he just ask me?” she said disapprovingly. “I could have used some of my healing -”

“Oh, Ophilia, you _know_ the guy,” Therion interrupted in exasperation. “He’d rather die than inconvenience you. Especially since the last time -”

“Are you still going on about what happened earlier?” Ophilia protested, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m fine now. I have it under control.”

“I wouldn’t risk it, dearest.” Cyrus shook his head. “Our run-in with the monsters earlier took a toll on you.”

“But even so, I could’ve gone with him!” she continued. “Or H’aanit! Or Olberic, or anyone! Why would he choose to go alone?”

“Listen, I don’t know, but could we stop chatting about it and take some action?” Therion’s voice was surprisingly venomous, even for him.

“Linde and I will aid thee,” H’aanit, whom nobody had noticed, offered. She stood at the top of the stairs, watching them with glinting eyes. Linde growled insistently as H’aanit gave her a firm pat. “Linde is trained for the hunt. I haven no doubt she will be able to locate Alfyn.”

“Perfect.” Cyrus nodded. “Is there anyone upstairs who can assist?” 

“Young Tressa and Sir Olberic hath both fallen asleep, and I dare not wake them,” the huntress mused, “and if Lady Primrose lay awake still, I heavily advise against her companionship. She must rest.”

“It’s just the five of us, then, I suppose,” Ophilia decided. She could feel Cyrus’s wary gaze on her, but he chose not to say anything.

The group exited the tavern into the night, silence drowning them. Overhead, thick clouds blocked the stars, making it even darker than usual. The town was nearly empty, what with the time it was, and a cold wind wrapped around the travelers, making them shiver. 

“Excuse me,” Cyrus called out, stopping a nervous looking young man hurrying by. “So sorry to bother you, but have you seen an apothecary around here?”

The man looked confused at the question, and seemed anxious to leave. “I, uh -”

“Guy in his early twenties, dirty blond hair, big green coat, too tall for his own good?” Therion demanded impatiently, moving to block his path.

Hastily, the man shook his head and pushed past, muttering a barely audible “sorry”.

Therion rolled his eyes. “Helpful.”

“He seemed fidgety,” Ophilia commented, watching the man’s retreating back. “Perhaps he was hiding something.” Cyrus opened his mouth, probably with a theory at the ready, but Therion only scoffed.

“Yeah, yeah. The only thing that guy was hiding was a rather scandalous letter for a secret lover,” he retorted. When the others looked at him in surprise, he just rolled his eyes again and held up a scrap of paper. “I couldn’t help it, okay? Just wanted to make sure he really didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Oh, Therion.” Ophilia shook her head, but chose not to pursue the subject any further. He was in a bad mood as it was, and they had bigger things to worry about.

“We wasteth time,” H’aanit said impatiently. “Linde knows the man’s scent well. She can leaden us to him if we give her the opportunity.”

“She’s right,” Therion agreed, folding his arms. “Nobody out at this time is up to anything good. Talking’s a time waster.”

“All right, all right,” Cyrus said, looking troubled. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to resort to it, but if it’s the best option . . .”

At his words, H’aanit knelt down and murmured something into the beast’s ear. The snow leopard immediately straightened out, even her long tail still in the evening’s gentle but chilled breeze. Then she started towards the forest, bordering the edge of town.

“Ah,” Ophilia murmured, as they followed. “He was looking for herbs. It would make sense for him to be in the forest.” She saw Cyrus go slightly pink, confirming she wasn’t the only one embarrassed about not figuring it out sooner.

Snowflakes began to fall from the black sky as they followed Linde through the thick bushes and trees. The darkness seemed to envelop them as they delved deeper, kept only at bay by Cyrus’s lantern, which illuminated the daunting growth with a golden glow. The nervous silence returned to the group. Even Therion, it seemed, was fresh out of quips.

“That thickheaded . . . why did he think he could . . .” he muttered, his words fading in and out of earshot. H’aanit rested a hand on his shoulder gently, though he flinched at the touch.

“Fret not, Therion,” she reassured him. “Linde is on his trail. I am surest we will find Alfyn soon. I know that he would feeleth most gracious for thy concern, were he here.”

“Yeah, whatever, tell him and I’ll kill you,” Therion grumbled, and H’aanit removed her hand with a sympathetic look. Ophilia studied him as they continued walking, noticing his hand resting on the dagger strapped around his leg. His eyes shifted around restlessly, and his whole body was tense. She could tell H’aanit’s words had barely gotten through to him. Whether it was about Alfyn or not, Therion was worried. Ophilia had never seen him worried before. He always seemed to have an almost reckless indifference to danger, but this was new. This was a different side of him.

Ten feet ahead, Linde froze, and everyone did the same. They watched with bated breath as she sniffed the ground and the air around her slowly. Then she made an abrupt turn to the left, running faster than anyone had expected.

“Something is wronge,” H’aannit said. The alarm in her voice was none too comforting. “Follow her!”

All of them, with barely any time to take in the sick feeling hanging in the air, took off after the leopard, who was getting harder and harder to catch up with. Ophilia and Cyrus struggled to keep up with H’aanit and Therion, who were bounding over bushes and branches adeptly. Their professions clearly gave them the upper hand in this situation. 

It was snowing heavily now, and the fat flakes made it harder to see ahead. If they didn’t find Alfyn soon, they’d be caught in a blizzard, and everyone knew it. This only drove them to move quicker, calling out the apothecary’s name loudly, only to be returned with the eerie silence of the snow.

When the crunching of the other two’s footsteps ahead of them came to a sickening halt, Ophilia and Cyrus looked at each other anxiously, then pushed past the bushes to get a better look.

H’aanit and Therion both stood frozen to the spot, but it wasn’t the cold that had stopped them. They stared into a clearing ahead, where Linde stood above a figure who lay still on the ground. Ophilia’s breath caught in her throat, and Cyrus’s eyes widened at the sight. Therion’s eyes, on the other hand, were scrunched closed, and he held his head like he was experiencing a bad memory. 

H’aanit was the first to approach. Bending over the body, a shadow cast over her face, and she looked back at them.

“Tis Alfyn.”

Therion cursed and stumbled forward, eyes snapping open. Ophilia’s stomach dropped, and her feet couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t seem to carry her towards the dreadful sight. Cyrus, perhaps noticing this, slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it tightly. “Come on,” he said, his voice quiet.

The view only got worse as they neared him. Alfyn’s chest and right arm were a mangled mess. Blood drenched his clothes. His bag’s contents were scattered all around him, spilling out from a long rip on his satchel. Eyes closed and face screwed up, he looked like he was having a nightmare. 

Ophilia felt dizzy. Here was Alfyn, who was just fine hours ago, cold and still on the ground. Everything was silent, and it felt wrong. Sweet, caring Alfyn had no comfort to offer now.

“Is -- is he dead?” Therion asked faintly, looking sick.

H’aanit, who had two fingers pressed to Alfyn’s neck, shook her head slowly. “I do not believe so. I findeth a pulse, but in his condition I fear he will not make it much longer.”

“We need to get him back to a doctor,” Cyrus said decisively, though alarm tainted his clear eyes.

“Agreed.” The huntress bent down and picked up Alfyn gingerly. With him in her arms, she began striding briskly back the way the group had come, like he weighed nothing. The other three followed her in horrified silence. As H’aanit made her way to the tavern, the remaining fanned out, searching the town for anyone with medical experience, but to no avail. Even if there was someone, it was the middle of the night, and nobody would answer their doors.

“What kind of bloody town is this?” Therion snapped. “Doctors who won’t wake up for an emergency -- perfect.”

He _was_ worried. Ophilia knew that by now. Everyone else was too, clearly, but it was strange for Therion to get so worked up. Sure, he had been with Alfyn longer than anyone in the group, but he had always seemed to be annoyed with the apothecary, brushing him off with short remarks and eye rolls. But as she studied Therion’s barely staved panic, Ophilia realized that there was a possibility it had all been a mask. That though Therion -- apathetic, brash, _cruel_ Therion -- claimed not to trust anyone, he did care somewhere deep down in that hard heart of his.

When they grudgingly entered the tavern, shivering from the cold, everyone was awake and in a muted panic. They were ushered upstairs to a room where Olberic, H’aanit, and the innkeeper were gathered around a still-unconscious Alfyn, who was spread out on a bed. Sitting on the other bed, a somber-faced Primrose was trying to console Tressa, whose eyes were puffy. Ophilia tore her eyes away from them and looked at H’aanit, who had turned around when the group entered.

“Was luck on thy side?”

“Not a medic to be found,” Cyrus replied gravely. The innkeeper scoffed and shook his head, as if he’d been expecting this.

“Then we’ll just have to do the best we can,” Olberic growled, the worry etched in his face making him look far older than he was.

Ophilia moved closer to get a better look at Alfyn. His shirt had been removed in an effort to take a closer look at the damage. They had done their best to clean up the blood, but it still didn’t look good, that was for sure. The gaping wounds were an angry crimson, marring his chest in a gruesome way. His arm was bandaged and put in a makeshift brace.

“’M not sure what to do about those chest wounds,” the innkeeper mused. “We could stitch ‘em up, but it wouldn’ be wise if they’re infected. Looks like poison, but that’s all I know for sure.”

“Indeed.” Olberic furrowed his brow. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Alas, not ‘who’, but ‘what’?” H’aanit corrected darkly. “No mere man could inflict such a grave injury. Twas the work of a beast.”

“Are you sure, Miss?” the innkeeper asked cautiously. “There may be wolves an’ bears, but there sure aren’t any beasts of legend around these parts.”

“Unless it migrated here,” Cyrus mused, speaking more to himself than anybody in the room. “A beast so powerful wouldn’t simply stay put.”

H’aanit narrowed her eyes, deep in thought. “I knowe not of many venomous creatures of such size. There art serpents, to be sure, but -”

“There are no snake bites to be seen,” Cyrus finished for her.

“Can we stop sitting around doing detective work and actually address the problem?” Therion spoke for the first time, getting everyone’s attention. He sat in a chair near the door. His eyes avoided Alfyn, who lay seemingly lifeless on the bed. “The guy’s _dying,_ and you’re all playing ‘whodunit’!”

“Patience, Therion!” Olberic boomed. He looked sharply at the thief, who didn’t wilt under his gaze like many others would. “We’re merely trying to assess the situation.”

“You’re trying to assess how to kill him the fastest, that’s what you’re doing!” Therion snapped, standing up. The chair hit the wall with a clatter.

And then, all of a sudden, everyone was talking. Olberic and Therion continued to argue, and H’aanit was over there in an instant to hold them back. Primrose admonished the innkeeper with a sharp “aren’t you going to _do_ something?” while Cyrus jumped in at his defense. It was then when Tressa promptly burst into tears.

“He’s doing the best that he can --”

“And what are _you_ doing? You won’t even look at him!”

“Of all the disrespectful little mongrels --”

“Don’t you _dare_ call me a mongrel, old man.”

“Cease! Arguing wilt do nothing!”

“What’s the matter with all of you? Alfyn is _dying_ \--”

“ _Stop!_ ” The words flew out of Ophilia’s mouth in a high shriek as she clamped her hands over her ears. It caught everyone, even Therion, by surprise, and slowly all the voices faded to silence. Finally, Olberic and Therion stopped glaring at each other to look over at the cleric in resignation. Hands shaking, she approached the bed, kneeling down at the side as H’aanit and Olberic parted for her. She extended her right hand and hovered it over Alfyn’s chest. With a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes and tried to drive the darkness out, racking her brain for a happy memory. Something. _Anything_. 

It wasn’t easy, that was for sure. Her head was immediately clouded with the dark anxieties the situation was plaguing her with. She shook her head and drove those thoughts away. They weren’t going to do a thing.

Finally, something stuck out. A warm night in the tavern. The lively conversation between H’aanit, Primrose, and Ophilia. One of the first nights of many to come. The feeling that Ophilia was finally _living_ , though she had never known she was missing anything days before. 

A warm feeling surfaced in her chest and spread throughout her as she smiled at the memory. Hearing a small gasp, she opened her eyes as the gashes on Alfyn’s chest closed up into dark scars. Though he didn’t wake up, his chest expanded as he painlessly breathed for what must have been the first time in hours. A collective sigh of relief filled the room, as even Therion drew closer.

Ophilia, on the other hand, couldn’t see much of anything, as the dizziness overtook her senses. “See?” she murmured, swaying. “I told you I could . . .”

She slumped forward onto the bed, and murmurs of alarm arose from the group.

“Whoa, is she okay?” Tressa yelped, standing up. 

Olberic, calm as can be, bent down and scooped the cleric up. She was still wearing an exhausted smile. “Poor girl’s overworked herself,” he said, his voice softening. “Let’s get her a bed set up in here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is more Alfion than anything else but ahhhhh they're soft. I promise this is still about Cyrus and Ophilia LOL, we'll get there!


	5. Chapter 5

Ophilia’s eyes slowly fluttered open, and she stared up at the wooden ceiling. Everything felt heavy; the blanket atop her, her exhausted body sinking into the soft mattress, and her eyelids which she had barely forced open. She breathed in slowly, trying to recount the night’s events, certain she didn’t remember getting into bed.

“I  _ can’t  _ believe you ran off like that. How thick-headed are you?” Even through her drowsiness, Ophilia processed Therion’s voice, but he didn’t seem to be talking to her. She turned over slowly, every muscle in her body protesting, to face the direction of the voice. Sure enough, the thief was sitting on a chair by the bed across from hers. In the bed, peeking out from the covers, was a very sleepy-looking but conscious Alfyn. 

“I couldn’t get the herbs, Theeerion,” the apothecary said mournfully, with the slurred words of someone who was only half awake. “Is your siiiide okay?”

Therion let out a dry laugh, though he looked just about ready to slap Alfyn across his battered face. “Is my  _ side  _ okay? You got  _ mangled, _ you bloody idiot!”

“Wow, reeeeeally?” Alfyn laughed, not fazed in the least by the sharp words. Then he winced. “It huuuuurts.”

“Of course it hurts. You looked like mincemeat by the time we found you.” Therion shook his head. “You’re lucky Ophilia did what she did, or else you’d be much worse off.”

“I like Ophiiiiilia,” Alfyn replied cheerfully. “She’s so niiiiiice.”

“You could say that, yeah,” Therion grumbled.

“You’re nice too, Theeerion.”

The thief snorted. “Where’d you get that twisted idea?”

The words tumbled lazily out of Alfyn’s mouth. “You always pretend you’re meeean, but you’re nice sometimes too. Like when you saved me from that big snaaaaake.” He yawned. “That was reeeeeally nice.”

“Yeah, sure,” Therion replied, rolling his eyes. “What are you gonna say next, that I have a beautiful smile?”

“No, you never smile,” Alfyn complained, appearing to pout a bit. “I was gonna talk about your pretty haaaaaair.” He reached over to touch it, and Therion leaned swiftly away.

“Whatever,” he said, smirking. “I’m gonna hold everything you say now against you later when you’re actually sane.”

“Awwwww, why would you do that? That’s so meeeean.”

“Get some sleep, medicine man,” Therion muttered, standing up. The apothecary was happy to comply, and was asleep again within seconds.

“That was sweet,” Ophilia croaked. She was instantly surprised at how dry her throat was. Therion, who was never surprised by anything, looked over at her carelessly.

“I had a feeling you’d wake up soon,” he commented. “Alfyn definitely needs a few more hours of sleep before he should be allowed to leave that bed.” He looked back at him, peacefully snoring, and shook his head. “That was a disaster.”

“He just cares, you know?” Ophilia replied, laying her head back onto her pillow.

Therion was silent for a moment. “His mistake,” he finally replied, a tint of bitterness resurfacing in his voice. Ophilia looked at him softly. She wanted to say something, but what? An assurance that Alfyn would recover? A question about why he pretended not to care? Or a frank statement telling him it was okay to be concerned? Therion met her eyes with an unreadable look, almost like he could read her thoughts, and words failed her. He looked away quickly, walking over to the door. 

“I should probably go get Cyrus,” he muttered, putting a hand on the doorknob. “He’s been asking about you nonstop. H’aanit had to drag him out of here an hour ago because he was going to starve.” He chuckled dryly.

“Really?” Ophilia really wished she could hide her voice skipping up an octave.

Therion raised his eyebrows in the condescending way he always did. “Is that so surprising? You know him, always over the top. And besides,” he smirked again, “I wouldn’t be shocked if he fancies you a bit.”

Slipping out the door before she even had a chance to respond, Therion left Ophilia alone with her thoughts. Her still drowsy brain couldn’t quite handle a thought that big yet, so instead she focused on the embroidery stitched onto the blankets she was under.

Within moments, the door flew open and she jumped. Cyrus was at her side before she could even process it. 

“I came as soon as I heard,” he panted. Ophilia looked him up and down. What Therion had said appeared to have some merit of truth to it; the professor’s hair was disheveled, and he had lost the cloak he always seemed to wear.

“No kidding,” she laughed hoarsely. “Therion left not thirty seconds ago.”

Cyrus shook his head. “You really should have restrained yourself a little,” he said, disapproval weaving its way into his voice.

Ophilia, who was rarely subject to his lectures, felt slightly miffed. “‘Restraining myself a little’ wouldn’t have saved Alfyn,” she pointed out.

“I suppose you’re right,” he replied resignedly. “You just had me -- rather, you had  _ all  _ of us worried. Olberic was afraid we were going to lose two members in one night.”

“You make me sound so anxious, Cyrus,” Olberic’s loud voice interrupted, as he walked into the room with Primrose and Therion close behind. “I wasn't  _ that  _ worried.”

“Oh, he was terrified,” Primrose assured Ophilia, sitting on the foot of the bed. “As was I. You and Alfyn really made a mess of yourselves. And  _ what  _ would we do about my cold with our two healers bedridden?” She tacked on that last remark with a sarcastic smirk and exaggerated cough pointed at Olberic. He huffed and mumbled something colorful before going to Ophilia’s side.

“Are you sure you’re feeling well, young Flamebearer?” he asked, his stony face softening.

“I’m feeling quite alright, Sir Knight,” Ophilia assured the man with a smile. “Physical exhaustion is quite normal for a cleric, especially after the use of so much magic. Let us keep our focus on Alfyn.” She looked over at the sleeping man in concern. “He’s probably still weak. My healing power can only do so much.”

“The guy was high off of exhaustion when I talked to him a few minutes ago,” Therion put in, “but he seemed fine. He might need to take a rain check on the out-of-the-blue adventures to the woods, though.”

“H’aanit’s out there trying to track any sign of the creature that attacked him,” Primrose said softly. She stood up and walked to Alfyn’s side. “And Tressa’s opened up shop in town square. She’s saving up to pay for food for the two of you.” She shook her head. “Poor girl was really shaken up about the whole thing.”

Olberic nodded solemnly. “Tressa may be an adventurer, but she is young still. I doubt she’d seen anything quite as gruesome as Alfyn’s state before last night.”

“Indeed,” Ophilia agreed, the memory of the merchant’s ghostlike face the night before still fresh. She changed the subject. “So, when do we plan on heading out again?”

“It’s hard to tell,” Cyrus mused, his eyes flitting from the cleric to the unconscious apothecary. “It would probably be wise to give Alfyn a day or two to heal. And you need rest as well.”

“I feel fine,” Ophilia said. As proof, she slid her covers off and attempted to get out of bed, only for her legs to buckle and send her falling back onto the mattress.

“Your legs seem to have other ideas,” Olberic commented. “I personally agree with Cyrus. A little rest could do us all some good.”

“Then we’ll reassess tomorrow,” Primrose decided briskly. “I’ll be at the weapons market should anyone need me.”

“I’ll go with you,” Therion said. “I’ve heard they’ve got some high-class blacksmith around here, and my dagger’s a little worse for wear.”

“You’re just going to steal a new one.” Primrose looked at him knowingly.

“We’ll see how it goes.” He shrugged.

“I’m going to go pay the innkeeper for all of his trouble last night,” Olberic said. “Perhaps I’ll go out for a little spar afterwards; I’ve been aching for some exercise.”

“Then I’ll stay here and look after Ophilia and Alfyn,” Cyrus decided. “I’ll go get accommodations.” He strode out of the room.

“Get some rest,” Olberic advised, before following suit.

“And don’t have too much fun,” Primrose remarked with a devilish grin, turning to look at Ophilia. Therion’s eyes darted between the two of them, and he caught on.

“Yeah,” he quipped, “maybe you could get in some  _ exclusive  _ study time with the professor, hm?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, go off, you two.” Ophilia shooed the duo, who seemed very content with themselves, out of the room with a wave of her hand. Soon enough, Cyrus reentered the room, his arms full of anything you could think of. Books, cloths, bandages, and was that a plate of food on top?

“Let me just . . . situate myself . . .” he muttered, setting the pile to teeter precariously on the bedside table and sitting down in a nearby chair. Then he looked up, his face bright. “I figured you must be hungry, so I brought you food from the tavern.”

“Oh, thank you,” Ophilia said graciously, taking the hot plate of breakfast from his hands and setting it carefully on her lap. “You didn’t have to.”

Cyrus smiled. “Perhaps I didn’t, but I chose to. I’ll get some for Alfyn when he awakes.” Then he cocked his head slightly to the side, staring at her. “Are you okay, my dear? You’re rather red.” Before Ophilia could stammer out a response, he put a hand to her forehead, which certainly didn’t help her case. “I thought so,” he frowned. “You’re a tad warmer than we’d like you to be.” Seizing a cloth, he walked over to a table across the room with a bucket of water atop it.

Ophilia, pink-faced, watched him with a light smile as he bustled around, soaking the cloth with water and wringing it out. His usually prim and perfect ebony hair hung over his face as he worked. Occasionally he would blow it out of his eyes, which worked for a few seconds until the distraction promptly returned. He hummed a light tune to himself so softly, Ophilia could barely hear it. But it tugged at something inside her all the same.

Taking a bite of omelet, she couldn’t help but wonder if what Therion had said earlier was true. Did he really “fancy” her, as the thief had put it so nonchalantly? He did seem keen on staying with her and keeping her in peak condition. It struck her as a bit unnecessary.

But he could have acted like this with anyone, the sensible voice in her head reasoned. She had just happened to be the sick one in this situation. Say it was, perhaps, Primrose who had collapsed in a state of exhaustion. He would surely take just as voracious care of her as he was with Ophilia, right? She couldn’t help but frown at the thought of Primrose alone with Cyrus. The dancer was charismatic, charming even. And attractive. Much more attractive than her . . .

Ophilia quickly shook the thoughts out of her head, ashamed they were even there in the first place. What was she doing, pitting herself against a friend, like the professor’s affections were some conquest? The thing that mattered more than anything else was her duty as Flamebearer, she reminded herself, and the sooner she healed, the better.

“I used a bit of my ice magic to cool the rag,” Cyrus explained, walking over to kneel at the bedside. “Nothing too extreme of course, just to help you cool off a touch.” He placed the rag to her forehead. Ophilia immediately flinched at the chill. “Let it sit a moment, you’ll get used to it,” he assured her, and she nodded slightly.

“You know, when I was young I caught a fierce cold,” Cyrus said, his eyes lighting up. “But I was so excitable, a little sickness couldn’t keep me down.” He chuckled. “You’d never believe it, but I was quite the restless child.”

“Actually, that doesn’t surprise me,” Ophilia murmured with a smile.

He winked and stood up. “I was so restless, however, that I overworked myself and passed out one day mid-adventure,” he said, heading over to Alfyn’s bed to place another cool rag on his forehead. Ophilia stifled a weak laugh at the thought. “When I came to, I had a horrid fever. My mother was worried half to death about me, so she called in a cleric passing through town.” Sitting down beside Ophilia’s bed once again, Cyrus continued. “I remember asking him why he was using a wet rag rather than his famed healing magic as he treated me. The young man laughed and said, ‘Sometimes a wet rag gets the job done just as well as any healing power could.’”

“Now, Cyrus, are you using this story to reprimand me?” Ophilia asked, pointing her fork at him accusingly.

The professor’s melodic laughter filled the room. “If you choose to take it that way. I was simply trying to lighten the mood with an amusing story,” he replied innocently. Then he leaned forward and placed a hand on Ophilia’s arm. “But I do hope you’ll stop being so incredibly selfless, otherwise it’s going to get you killed.” The worry in his eyes overrode the teasing tone of his voice.

“It would be a just death,” Ophilia said with a mischievous grin. 

“Now, now, if you die, you’re going to have to take me down with you,” Cyrus shot back, eyes gleaming. His hand slid down her arm to grasp her hand dutifully.

“It’s a deal then,” Ophilia agreed solemnly, glad that the red in her cheeks was deceptively masked by her fever. Though the banter had been playful, the tension between the two was thick enough to slice as they looked at each other -- Cyrus’s baby blue eyes boring into Ophilia’s warm brown ones. 

Butterflies exploded in the cleric’s stomach as she realized just how  _ close  _ he was. She could see every subtle freckle, hear every light breath the professor took. And it may have just been her imagination, but . . . did Cyrus’s eyes briefly flit down to her lips?

“Wakey, wakey!” The two jumped and Ophilia let out a small yelp as the door flew open. “I’ve been out on the market all day, and you won’t  _ believe  _ what I’ve -- oh.” Tressa ran in, full of the usual energy, but screeched to a halt when she saw Cyrus at Ophilia’s side. Her eyes lingered on their hands, which were still clasped together. “ _ Oh. _ ”

“Tressa!” Ophilia cried, releasing the professor’s hand. Her face had turned a unique shade of burgundy. “This must -- it’s not -- we --”

She had never seen Tressa look more delighted. “Do you guys need a --” She pointed over her shoulder inquisitively.

“Oh, no,” Cyrus said, his voice surprisingly calm. If he was embarrassed, it didn’t show. Standing up, he continued. “I was just on my way to grab a fresh rag for Ophilia.”

“Yeah, grab one for Alfyn too,” Tressa commented. “He’s looking a bit overexcited.” Both Cyrus and Ophilia whirled around to see the apothecary, wide awake, leaning against the headboard with a goofy grin on his face.

“Shucks, Tressa, you blew my cover!” he complained. “It was just getting good!”

“Alfyn!” Ophilia shrieked in horror. Looking frantically around for something to hurl at him, she decided on an extra pillow. He held up his hands helplessly to deflect the projectile, laughing all the while.

“I’ll go get those rags then,” Cyrus said awkwardly, sidling past Tressa, who was doubled over in laughter, to exit the room.

“So when’s the wedding?” Alfyn commented offhandedly after a few agonizing seconds had passed.

“You two are impossible,” Ophilia fumed. “I could report this to the church you know.” But even as she waved a disapproving finger, she burst into laughter at the empty threat.

“Yeah, complain to Aelfric about us in your next prayer,” Alfyn laughed, before wincing. “Ow, ribs.”

“Man, I can’t wait ‘till Prim hears about this.” Tressa wiped a tear from one eye.

“Oh, don’t you  _ dare  _ tell her!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the stuff you came here for (kinda.)  
> As you've probably figured out by now, I'm awful at writing notes so . . . Same deal as always, constructive criticism and reviews are appreciated! Hope you enjoyed it!


	6. Chapter 6

“‘Pretty hair?’” Alfyn rested his head on the bartop while Ophilia laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Gods, I don’t remember a thing!”

“Oh, it gets better,” Therion, who was clearly enjoying himself, said. “You reached up and tried to touch it. And your voice had this hilarious slur to it -- you sounded half drunk.” His face contorted into a pout. “‘You’re so meeeean, Theeeeeeerion,” he whined in a shockingly accurate impression of the apothecary’s voice.

“Now, be easy on him,” Ophilia reprimanded him, trying to hide a smile.

Alfyn groaned and lifted his head up. “Maybe I could use a pint of mead to forget _this_ conversation, too.”

“Oh, no,” Ophilia said shortly, face turning serious. “We leave soon and our only medic is _not_ going to be drunk on the road.”

“Aw, whaddya mean our only medic?” Alfyn complained, shooting her a knowing smile to show he was only teasing.

“Olberic hath advised her against using excessive magic for the time being.” H’aanit joined the conversation, sitting on Ophilia’s right. “And twas right of him to do so, if thou wilt pardon my saying it.”

“Yeah, her holiness is getting a little _too_ obsessed with helping people.” Therion leaned back carelessly. “Soon it’s gonna be the death of her.”

“One could argue the same thing about your thievery,” Ophilia shot back, unwilling to talk about this _again_.

“At least I can run away from the angry nobility,” he reasoned. “Your own quirky magical side effects are harder to escape.”

“Is this not what my powers were granted to me for? If the situation arises, it is my duty to be there.”

“The situation ariseth too much, I fear,” H’aanit remarked with a shake of her head.

“Everyone packed and ready over here?” Primrose approached the group. “As soon as Olberic gives the word, we’re heading out.”

“Primrose!” Alfyn greeted as everyone slid out of their seats. “How’s that cold?”

“Barely noticeable thanks to you,” she replied, as warmly as possible for her. “How are you feeling?” This question was accompanied with a nod towards his right arm, which was now heavily bandaged.

“Eh.” He shrugged, then winced a bit at the movement. “Could be better, but could also be much worse. Havin’ a hard time adjusting to using my left arm for things, though.”

“Do we have any idea of where we’re headed next?” Ophilia turned to ask Primrose. Then, after briefly scanning the room, she posed another question. “And, speaking of which, where are the others?” Olberic was having a friendly conversation with the innkeeper by the door, but Tressa and Cyrus were both absent.

“To answer the first question, no. I’m assuming we’ll discuss it when we’re all together.” She tossed her brown hair back carelessly. “But I’m not sure where those two got off to.”

“Tressa vanished earlier this morning,” H’aanit offered. “I believe the young merchant wanted to maken a sale before our departure.” Then she frowned. “Cyrus, on the other hand, I know not. Mayhaps he returned to the library?”

“Mayhaps I what?”

The group turned to face the sound of the voice, which was undoubtedly Cyrus, but the sight was surprising. He trudged down the stairs lethargically, rubbing his eyes and looking half asleep. His appearance -- and normally flawless hair, to Ophilia’s dismay -- was unusually disheveled. The vest that was so often neatly buttoned up without a wrinkle to be seen was only halfway on, and his black cloak was slung carelessly over his shoulder. Ophilia and her companions couldn’t help but gape at him.

He looked over them in mild confusion. “Why are you all looking at me that way?”

“Did you _just_ wake up?” Therion asked bluntly.

“Yes, I did. Why~?” His sentence turned into a yawn halfway through, and he stretched, several bones popping.

“It’s nearly midday, Cyrus,” Primrose admonished him. “You’re never one to oversleep.”

“Midday?” The professor’s bleary eyes widened a bit. “My, I didn’t mean to sleep for that long. How unbecoming of me. I’ve just been . . . so tired lately.”

The group side-eyed each other, bewildered. Cyrus, sleepy? He definitely wasn’t the type. And besides, wasn’t he the one who stayed up reading into the early hours of the morning only to wake up the next day more energetic than ever?

“Well, I’d eat up quickly,” Alfyn suggested uncertainly after a moment’s pause. “Once Tressa gets back we’re leavin’.”

“I suppose I’ll do just that.” Cyrus nodded, still looking slightly dazed, and stumbled past them towards the bar.

The remainder of the party exchanged weird looks, but before anything could be said on the matter the tavern door slammed open with a _bang_. In the doorway stood a very disgruntled Tressa, holding the stone chest they’d found days earlier. Linde, who had been pacing outside, wound around the girl’s legs purring.

“I’ve tried town square,” she declared, storming inside. “I’ve tried the market. I’ve tried every darned street corner in this town and no one will buy this chest!” She slammed the heavy object on Cyrus’s table so suddenly that he jumped a mile.

“Well, it’s not that big,” Primrose reasoned, looking slightly amused at the girl’s frustration. “And it’s not much to look at, either.”

“Even so, a chest is a chest, and chests are useful. I don’t see why no one would even consider buying it. My prices were so low, too!” She slumped down in the chair next to Cyrus, who was dazedly inspecting the wooden grain on the table rather than eating, and looked at him incredulously. “What happened to _you_?”

“Everyone’s feeling a little out of it, lately.” Olberic turned away from the innkeeper -- who, Ophilia noticed, was looking increasingly uncomfortable -- to face Tressa. “That’s why we need to get back on the road again.”

“You may strike true in the next town,” H’aanit reassured her. “I will carry the chest for thee on the journey.”

“And that brings us straight to the topic of where we’re headed next,” Therion put in, clearly impatient to get to the point. He turned to face Olberic. “What do you say, old man? You’re the leader here.”

Olberic frowned. “Well, that depends. Does anyone have an urgent destination nearby?”

“I have business in Stillsnow,” Primrose piped up quickly, surprising everyone. 

“I do as well,” H’aanit said, moving to stand by Primrose and beckoning to Linde. “I seeketh to find a cure for my master’s state as soon as possible, and the Frostlands are but a short distance from here. ‘Twould be a mere few days’ trip.”

The knight raised an eyebrow at Primrose’s uncharacteristic eagerness, but didn’t press for answers. “That works for me. I have my sights set on Victor’s Hollow, which isn’t far from there.” Then he turned to face the rest of the group. “Does anyone have any input?”

Therion sighed dejectedly. “I mean, I _do_ have to get to Noblecourt at some point. I’m in.”

“Anything to get out of the Flatlands,” Tressa added. “No offense, Prof.” 

Cyrus seemed to jolt out of a daydream as she teasingly jabbed him. “Huh? Ah. Yes. Stillsnow sounds fine,” he murmured hastily. 

Ophilia looked at him in concern before speaking. “Wherever you all choose to go, I will follow. Though I would like to go to Goldshore fairly soon.”

“Hey, same here,” Alfyn agreed. “It’d be great to see the Coastlands again. But I’m okay with waiting if y’all want to head north.”

“It would appear we’re all in agreement.” Olberic nodded. Then he turned back to the innkeeper. “You have been a valuable help during our stay here. We owe you our deepest gratitude.”

“Aw, there’s no cause fer that, my friend,” the man stammered, looking anxious at all the attention turned onto him. “My pleasure to help travelers in need.”

“Canst we at least pay thee for thy troubles?” H’aanit persisted, causing the man to hold his hands up.

“Listen, as I told your swordsman over here, I don’t need any payment. I’m happy jus’ to be helpful to you folk.”

H’aanit looked as if she wanted to argue further, but Olberic put a large hand on her shoulder to silence her. “Then we are most grateful for your generosity. May our paths cross again.”

“For certain.” And with that, the man bustled quickly away, up the stairs and out of sight.

After a few last minutes of packing and preparation, everyone headed out of the small town and onto the beaten trail that shot through the Flatlands. “You know,” Alfyn muttered to Ophilia as they brought up the rear, “Therion’s hair _is_ pretty nice.”

The cleric giggled and shielded her eyes from the sun overhead. It was a long trek to Stillsnow, to be sure, but traveling in this group had always made the hours fly by. Looking over her chattering companions, Ophilia’s eyes rested on Primrose, who was leading determinedly at H’aanit’s side, and she wondered what was running through her mind at the moment.

She had harbored an almost childlike admiration for the dancer ever since the group had met her in the Sunlands. Trapped in a dingy desert town, forced to dance by a filthy excuse for a man, Primrose had always had many reasons to lose hope. But even from across the crowded bazaar in Sunshade, Ophilia saw the fire in her eyes, the pure willpower to push her through her trials. And that was the reason why, after the deed was done and Primrose’s master was dead, she had been the one to extend the hand of companionship, even though it was dangerous for the Flamebearer’s reputation to be involved in such dark matters.

As distrustful as Primrose was, she’d accepted after a bit of thought. She remained a closed book to most of the team members for some time, but Ophilia and H’aanit managed to weave their way into her trust more quickly than the others during the weeks of travel and shared experiences. Ophilia could still remember the night she’d confided to the two of them in private what her mission was -- exacting revenge on the men who’d murdered her father.

“There will be blood on my hands,” she had warned, “and quite possibly yours as well. Are you sure you wish to accompany me on this journey?”

“We wilt do what we can to help,” H’aanit had replied fervently. “And what we must.”

Ophilia, admittedly, had felt a bit more nervous at the prospect. She didn’t want to get mixed up in anything that could endanger her position, and this was something that very potentially could. But she had grown fond of the dancer over the time they had spent together, so she instead decided to support Primrose from the sidelines without getting too involved. A reckless, incomplete plan, perhaps, but a plan nonetheless.

Ever since then, the three of them had been close. Over the course of a few months, Primrose had eventually learned to trust the others -- even Therion, who’d distrusted her as much as she did him when he joined -- but H’aanit and Ophilia were the only ones who knew the full story, and they had sworn an oath to keep it that way until Primrose said the word. 

The group trudged on at a leisurely pace, not everyone quite sharing the dancer’s fixation on their destination. Linde often stayed in the front with her master, but there were times when she’d fall back to visit with some of the other members. Olberic chatted good-naturedly with Alfyn and Tressa, sharing far-fetched tales of the glory days that Tressa swore couldn’t be true. Therion silently bit into an apple as he lingered in the knight’s shadow. He was most likely trying to pickpocket something, so Ophilia looked away before she felt tempted to reprimand him.

Cyrus walked alone, the sleepiness still evident in his demeanor. It wasn’t uncommon for the professor to go silent for a little while every now and then; he was often just lost in thought, thinking about some book he was studying, or a historical battle he hadn’t quite cracked. This time, however, it was different, and Ophilia knew it. He’d been more reserved than usual after the “incident” a few days prior, especially around Ophilia. The cleric was afraid that Alfyn and Tressa’s teasing had embarrassed him -- or worse, but most likely the case, he’d finally picked up on her feelings for him and wasn’t sure how to turn her down. She’d hesitated to ask him about another study session, and he hadn’t brought it up, so the two were restricted to painful occasional small talk. Perhaps the others had noticed the tension, because Ophilia had sensed an evident lack of teasing lately.

As the lush green of the Flatlands began to freeze into the icy Frostlands, Ophilia took a huge breath of the chilled air and exhaled. Her breath fogged and rose up into the air like a column of smoke, and she smiled slightly. The last time she’d been here was when she left home to begin the Kindling alongside H’aanit, which felt like years ago now. She couldn’t help but have a peaceful fondness for the frigid temperatures that felt so much like home.

Some of the others, however, disagreed.

Primrose, who H’aanit had graciously lent her fur coat to, cursed under her breath. “I hate the cold,” she muttered, clutching the cloak as close to her shaking body as possible. 

“Yeah, I have to agree with ya there,” Alfyn said, smiling despite his shivers. “It never gets even close to this cold down in Clearbrook. Then again,” he shook his head, “you live in the Sunlands, so this must be completely new to you.”

“It’s been years since I’ve seen snow,” Primrose sighed. “Sadly, it isn’t quite as magical as I remember it being.” She turned uncertainly to H’aanit. “Are you sure you aren’t cold?”

H’aanit, who didn’t exude an ounce of discomfort, shook her head. “A huntress must be prepared for all climates in order to completely commit unto the hunt. Keepen my cloak as long as thou wishest.”

“Hey, I won’t complain.” The dancer smiled weakly.

The trail grew steeper and more snow-ridden as they advanced. Snowflakes began to lightly fall from the gray sky onto the travelers, and Ophilia couldn’t help but tune into Alfyn and Therion’s nearby conversation.

“So you’re saying you don’t remember _anything_?” Therion, as usual, sounded impatient.

“Listen, buddy, it’s hard to figure out what’s attacking you _while_ you’re bein’ attacked,” Alfyn replied, sounding surprisingly good-natured for someone talking about being brutally ripped open. “All I know is that it wasn’t human. Growling and snarling somethin’ fierce.”

“So it could’ve been a monster, like H’aanit was saying.” Snowflakes peppered the thief’s bright hair as he continued. “What about its appearance? What did it look like?”

“I dunno.” Alfyn’s face scrunched up in thought. “It was furry, maybe? And black, I think. Black or really dark blue, it was hard to tell in the dark.”

Therion rolled his eyes and turned to Cyrus who walked alongside them, deep in thought. “Sound familiar?”

The professor shook his head and turned to look at him, appearing like he’d been awoken from a long nap. “Ah -- I’m not sure. This is really more H’aanit’s field, see. Perhaps you should ask her.”

Therion blinked, a rare look of surprise flashing in his eyes. Ophilia didn’t blame him; that may have possibly been the shortest thing Cyrus had ever said on a matter he would normally find “most interesting.” The thief craned his neck to find H’aanit, who was deep in discussion with Olberic about something, and scoffed.

“Guess that’s all we’re gonna know about it for now,” he muttered.

“Hey.” Alfyn turned to face him, his eyebrows knit together. “What has you so set on findin’ this thing? I mean, why the sudden interest? I recall you saying not one week ago that you’d be glad if I walked off a cliff by accident.”

Therion didn’t answer, and a slow grin of realization crossed the apothecary’s face. 

“Oh, I see,” he started, leaning over to elbow the thief. “Mr. I-Don’t-Care-About-Anyone-But-Myself doesn’t wanna admit that he considers me a friend.”

Therion pushed his arm away in disgust. “We are far from friends.”

“Yeah, well we’re far from enemies too, I’d reckon,” Alfyn replied cheerfully. “I’ll have you know that I consider you an alright guy when you aren’t stealin’ from kids.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“Aw, don’t pretend you don’t enjoy my company. According to H’aanit, you were pretty worried about me when I got attacked. That’s rather sweet, if ya ask me.”

Ophilia, and now Primrose and Tressa as well, watched the conversation in mute amazement. Alfyn had always been less intimidated by Therion than the others, but everyone was beginning to wonder just how far the thief was going to let him push him.

“Yeah, well H’aanit wasn’t supposed to tell,” Therion growled, and the seemingly unaware woman’s ears went pink up ahead.

“You don’t have to say a thing,” Alfyn continued. “We’re gonna be the best of friends, you and I.” He slung his good arm around the thief’s shoulder, and there was a visible change. Therion flinched at the touch and a steely coolness flickered in his eyes.

“You and my dagger are going to be ‘the best of friends’ here pretty soon, medicine man,” he threatened, flashing the blade. Alfyn’s smile wavered, and he released him.

“Sorry.”

Silence.

Another try at humor. “So, should we make matching bracelets first, or --?”

“Alfyn. Shut up.”

“Alrighty.” He stuck his hands into his pockets and left the thief’s side to join Ophilia. Primrose and Tressa tried to hide their smiles as they turned away and continued talking.

“That didn’t go well,” she observed sympathetically as he approached.

“Eh.” Alfyn shrugged lightly, looking almost completely unaffected by Therion’s vicious temperament. “He’s warmin’ up to me, I think.” He threw a careful glance over his shoulder and smiled. “You wouldn’t know, but this is a huge improvement compared to when we first met.”

Ophilia had never heard the story of how Therion and Alfyn had met. They were the last members to join the group, and they had done so as a pair, so in her brain they’d always been together. A spark of curiosity lit up in her. “Was it bad?”

“The guy would barely speak to me,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “But what he won’t admit is he was the one to help _me_ that day.”

Ophilia looked over earnestly, waiting for him to continue, and he laughed in resignation. “Okay, okay, here’s the deal. Back in my hometown, I wasn’t the only apothecary around. My best friend, Zeph, had skills equal, if not better than mine. We were kinda like the village doctors. There was nothing we couldn’t fix.” His smile bittered a bit as he continued. “But one day, his little sister got bitten by a poisonous snake, and we weren’t sure what to do. The wounds were really serious, and if we didn’t do somethin’ soon, she was done for. So Zeph stayed back with her while I set out to find the stuff for an antidote. One of the most crucial ingredients for the concoction was the venom of the snake that bit her, so of course I went after it. And it wasn’t too hard to find at all.”

“But?”

“The thing was _huge,_ Phili. Biggest snake I’ve ever seen, and with fangs as long as my forearm.” To prove his point, Alfyn held out his good arm. “That wasn’t gonna stop me though. Nina was counting on this remedy after all. So I fought it, and it didn’t hold back. It was vicious. Awful. There was one point where it had me backed up against a wall. My axe was ten feet away, and I thought I was dead for sure.” Then, his caramel eyes lit up. “And that’s when Therion came. Y’know, I wasn’t sure how he got there, or how he knew I was in trouble, but he was there in an instant. And with a _swish_ \--” he childishly recreated the swing of Therion’s dagger, “-- and some convenient fire magic, he made short work of the thing. It was incredible.”

“Remarkable.” Ophilia could picture it now. She’d seen Therion’s skills in combat several times, and had no doubt he was capable of taking down a serpent of that size.

“We’ve stuck together ever since. After all,” he smiled softly, “I owe him now.”

Ophilia looked back at Therion over her shoulder, wondering if he’d been eavesdropping, but nothing about his appearance strongly indicated that he’d heard what was said. This being said, his eyes were now fixated on the snow below him instead of the path ahead. He looked up, seeming to feel her gaze, and she looked away.

The snow was coming down much heavier now, and even Ophilia, who had grown up in weather like this, shivered lightly as a bitter wind wrapped the travelers.

“M-maybe we could make a stop in Flamesgrace?” Tressa suggested, her teeth chattering. Olberic fumbled for his map and, after some inspection, shook his head.

“It’s still a few hours off.”

“Well is there anything closer, your knightness?” Therion snapped, pulling his thin, battered cloak tighter around him. “Because I’m not too enthusiastic about freezing to death.”

“Flamesgrace is the closest!” he yelled back. “We’ll just have to deal with a little snow.”

A little snow soon became a lot of snow. The wind howled, bringing torrents of icy snowflakes that stung against the travelers’ faces. Ophilia hadn’t seen weather like this in years. It became so thick that not even H’aanit’s lantern could cleave through the haze around them, and once they were certain they’d lost the path they began seeking shelter to wait out the blizzard in. Tressa spotted a small cave peeping out of a mound of snow, and with nowhere else to go, the group quickly headed inside. With the few sticks and kindling littered around the interior, and a little help from Cyrus’s fire magic, they had a fire going in no time. 

“Get cozy, everyone,” Olberic said, eyeing the snow outside. “I have a feeling this isn’t going to let up for a while.”

Tressa, who had scooted as close to the fire as safely possible, sighed. “It’s not much warmer in here, that’s for sure.”

“Fear not, young one,” H’aanit replied, taking her satchel off and rummaging through it. “Over the years I have concocted quite the masterful cider. It will warm thee to thy bones.” She set a small pot onto the cave floor, then looked over at Therion, who was slumped against the cave wall. “Therion, wilt thou slice up a few of thy apples for me?”

He looked slightly put off at being ordered around but he slid an apple out of his pocket and began whittling at it nonetheless. 

Then H’aanit turned to Alfyn. “Dost thou still have the berries we foraged some time ago?”

The apothecary perked up. “Oh, you mean the elderberries?” Sliding a hand into his satchel, which he had done his best to patch up, he retrieved a small cloth that, once unfolded, revealed several small dark berries.

The huntress nodded in approval. “Those will add a vibrant flavor.” She turned to Cyrus. “Professor, if thou wilt, couldst I use some of thy ice magic for water?”

He nodded. “Of course, my dear H’aanit.” And with a brief incantation and a flick of his hand, a large chunk of ice was melting in the pot over the fire.

“If I may,” Ophilia piped up, eager to contribute, “I bought some cinnamon sticks from a merchant at a market a few weeks ago, and I haven’t had the opportunity to use them yet.”

“I thinkest the cider would gain much from that,” H’aanit said cheerfully. Ophilia rummaged around in her bag until she found the small jar they were contained in and handed them over.

About ten minutes later, they were all huddled around the fire together, drinking cider and chatting merrily. H’aanit hadn’t been kidding; the cider seemed to warm Ophilia’s whole body through, and it tasted amazing.

Alfyn, who was on his third glass, raised his cup. “To H’aanit, and her cooking keeping us alive.”

“Hear hear,” Olberic agreed, raising his as well. The rest of the party followed suit, even Therion, who couldn’t hide how much he was enjoying the drink.

H’aanit’s face went pink. “Cease at once,” she mumbled modestly. “All of thou flattereth me. ‘Tis quite a simple recipe.” But despite her embarrassment, she seemed genuinely happy with the praise.

Soon, everyone’s conversation and movement slowed as drowsiness began to overtake them. Linde curled up at H’aanit’s side, and the huntress was asleep in minutes. Primrose sat on the snow leopard’s other side, sinking her weight into the creature and also dozing off. Alfyn and Tressa sleepily leaned against the wall, cracking jokes and laughing softly. Olberic sat on Primrose’s right, keeping watch over the fire and trying to stifle yawns. Therion sat on the other side of the flames, subtly eyeing the gold jewelry around Primrose’s neck, but anytime he moved anywhere near the dancer Linde opened an eye and gave him a warning growl. 

Cyrus, however, stood at the entrance of the cave, looking out into the storm.

Ophilia, who was sitting nearby Tressa, felt a sudden urge to approach him, perhaps apologize for the mischief the others had caused between them. So, despite every anxious bone in her body screaming at her not to, she got up and walked over to stand at his side. He didn’t speak, instead continuing to stare out over the snowy landscape.

“It’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmured after a minute.

He nodded, not turning his head. “Indeed it is. Yet so deadly.”

Another harsh silence followed, and Ophilia was just about to leave and give him space when he asked an unexpected question.

“Ophilia, is being the Flamebearer difficult?”

The cleric looked at him in surprise. “Well . . .” she began slowly, trying to piece her thoughts together. “I suppose it can be, at times. All the traveling, all the responsibility. The rumors that are spread, the disapproval of others . . .” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It can try one's spirit.”

“Of course, of course,” he nodded, sounding impatient, “but what about leaving? Your family, your hometown . . . Behind you, possibly for good.” He finally turned to look at her, his eyes full of concern. “Wasn’t that hard for you?”

“It was,” Ophilia replied softly. “Lianna . . . was always stronger in faith than me. Sturdier, too. More able for the task. Had she not wished to stay home with Father, I would have chosen to live in Flamesgrace for the rest of my days.” She paused. “But it didn’t work out that way. My family is counting on me, and now I have to fight for them. But, professor, why would you ask such a thing?”

Cyrus smiled, though it looked sadder than usual. “Ah, nothing, my dear. It was just as I expected. You have someone to fight for.” He went quiet for a moment, then continued. “As does H’aanit, and Primrose, and Alfyn . . . Even Therion is content with fighting for himself. But what am I fighting for?” His fingers fiddled with his cloak absentmindedly. “I must admit I’m not quite sure. Of course, I know what my mission is, and I know what I intend on doing, but for what?”

Ophilia studied him, surprised at the sudden turn the conversation had taken. “I’m not sure I understand,” she admitted, and the professor laughed softly. 

“I didn’t expect you to. I’m not sure _I_ understand, either. I just feel like the pursuit of knowledge can only get me so far. Say I achieve my goal. I solve this mystery I’ve been pursuing, and my reputation is cleared. Then where will I go? Back to Atlasdam, to continue studying, I suppose. That’s been my lifelong plan ever since I began my studies, but for the first time it just . . . doesn’t feel right.”

“So it’s like . . . the opposite of homesickness?” Ophilia inquired, trying desperately to make sense of what he was saying.

“I’m not quite sure if Atlasdam ever truly was my home,” Cyrus replied thoughtfully. “Since my mother passed, I’ve been looking for a place to make me feel at home again. And for a time, Atlasdam settled those needs. Full to the brim with treasures of knowledge and wisdom -- it’s a scholar’s dream. It all felt perfect until I saw you walking down the cobble streets towards me.”

“What -- what are you saying?” Ophilia stammered, looking at the man in surprise.

“Traveling with you -- in this group -- has given me that feeling of home once again. Teaching was a great opportunity for me, and it allowed me to exercise my knowledge, but it wasn’t the same. Here, I feel I have a family. This . . .” he searched for the right words. “. . . Ragtag group has a remarkable sense of unity. It just got me thinking about when our traveling will come to an end.”

Ophilia stared at Cyrus as he went quiet, with snowflakes peppering his dark hair and a look of rare vulnerability on his face, and felt a sudden rush of affection for the man. He’d never been this open with her -- or anyone, for that matter. And though she loved her hometown above all else, she could relate to his feelings of attachment to everyone. There was something so imperfectly perfect about their newfound traveling family. “Well, I still have much more I need to do before I intend on returning to Flamesgrace,” she said, leaning over to brush against his shoulder. “So, if no one else, you can count on my companionship for some time to come.”

A smile more like himself lit up his face. “And that’s more than I could ask for, dearest.”

Ophilia felt a sudden relief at the ice between them breaking once again. So, frankly impressed at her own forwardness, she took his hand and beckoned for him to follow her. “Now, come inside. You should rest.”

He smiled at her again, making the familiar butterflies return. “As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long update! Hopefully the lengthier chapter will make up for it.  
> I wasn't expecting this fic to take off but apparently a lot of you guys are enjoying it 😳 Thank you all so much for the support!  
> I hope to update every 1-2 weeks, but due to school and work there might be some delays. Once again, thank you for reading this, and I hope you'll enjoy the chapters to come!


	7. Chapter 7

The first attack came in the middle of the night.

Ophilia was awoken from a light and fitful sleep by a shrill cry, and her eyes snapped open. The cave was dark, and she had to strain to see the threat as she sat up, but the danger was immediately evident. Tressa's silhouette scuttled backwards, fumbling for her spear as two shadowy monsters closed in on her. 

The cleric was on her feet in seconds, seizing her staff and rushing towards the danger. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Cyrus, who had been curled up a few feet from her moments earlier, immediately rise as well. He must have used his magic to reignite the dying fire, as the room flooded with a sudden light and revealed the threat -- lizardmen. Their icy scales glimmered in the firelight, and their narrow eyes darted around the room erratically. At five feet tall, they were nearly as tall as Tressa, and twice as greedy.

One of the reptilian creatures spotted Ophilia approaching out of the corner of its eye and whirled towards her, holding up its spear to block her attack at the last moment. She jumped backwards and, with a chant, engulfed the creature in a pillar of light. It shuddered at the magic, clearly affected but not badly hurt. On its other side, Tressa was in close combat with the other lizardman, whose eyes were trained not on her, but the chest behind her.

So that’s what they were _really_ after.

Ophilia suddenly felt a brief faintness, not unlike what had happened after their adventure in the waterways days ago, but shook it off as her opponent drew closer once again. She twisted to dodge a jab from its spear, then rushed in to bash it with her staff. The metal connected with the side of the lizardman’s scaly head, making a dull _smack_ , and it reeled backwards, holding its head in pain.

Then, all of a sudden, Therion was at her side, flexing his hand and sending a burst of flame at the creature. It flew backwards and let out one last scream before hitting the jagged wall and falling limp onto the ground. Looking to Tressa, Ophilia found that H’aanit and Cyrus had come to the girl’s aid, and with a blow of the huntress’s axe the lizardman was made short work of.

The confrontation couldn’t have been longer than thirty seconds, but everyone was awake now. Ophilia and Tressa both took a moment to catch their breath, hearts pumping from the fight, as the rest of the group got to their feet.

“What was that all about?” Primrose asked, rubbing her eyes.

“I dunno,” Tressa panted, leaning against the wall. “I’m just lucky I woke up in time.”

“Blast it, I should’ve known better than to let us sleep without a watch,” Olberic scoffed. “Lizardfolk are a nuisance.” 

“Is anyone hurt?” Alfyn shakily stood up with some assistance from the knight.

“Luckily, no,” Tressa replied, inspecting herself. “I think we both managed to make it without a scratch, right Phili?”

Ophilia’s eyes, however, were on the chest that Tressa stood by, sitting innocently on the stone floor. “I think they were after the chest,” she said abruptly, drawing the group’s attention. When no one spoke immediately, she continued. “The one Tressa was fighting, it seemed more interested in the chest than her.”

“Interesting,” Cyrus mused, moving swiftly across the room to inspect it.

Tressa, on the other hand, was unimpressed. “Man, I should’ve let them take the stupid thing. The gods know I don’t want it.”

“Hey, stay optimistic,” Alfyn reminded her. “Someone in Stillsnow might still want it, right?”

“And if they wanted to steal it, perhaps there’s something about it we don’t know.” Cyrus ran a hand over the stonework thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Therion snorted. “Or they just didn’t know there’s nothing left in it.”

“Silence!” H’aanit’s hushed voice suddenly berated them, and the group was quick to comply, giving her questioning looks. Linde, at her side, growled softly. “Something cometh.”

And quick as a flash, before anyone could react, she whipped out her bow and fired a shot at the mouth of the cave, where another lizardman’s head peeked up just in time for the arrow to fly into its skull. It fell backwards, prompting its friends to leap over the ledge, hissing angrily. This time there had to be at least ten.

“We aren’t out of the water just yet, it seems,” Olberic grunted, unsheathing his sword. At the sight of the weapon, the monsters skittered backwards, then glared at the travelers with their narrow eyes. A moment’s pause followed, until one of the lizardmen stepped forward and raised its weapon, letting out a harsh shriek.

And just like that, the cave was chaos once again. Everyone was fighting, but the clangor of weapons and battle cries were all a blur to Ophilia. Hitting one with her staff, using her light magic on another, then dodging the attack of a third -- it all blended together into a hectic, frenzied adrenaline rush. Occasionally she’d find herself back to back with Tressa or Primrose, who were fighting just as fiercely as their opponents, only to rush away moments later to attack another creature. They just seemed to keep coming; when Ophilia beat one, two were there to promptly take its place. Even Olberic, who could knock out three of the creatures with one stroke of his unbending blade, was looking overwhelmed.

Then, over the sounds of battle, a hoarse yelp caught Ophilia’s attention, and her heart nearly stopped. _Alfyn_.

The apothecary was backed into a corner by three lizardmen, who must have singled him out as the weak one immediately. His attempts to use his axe left-handed were feeble, so he cast it aside and resorted to what little magic he knew. But even the shards of ice seemed to reflect his fatigue, sticking up out of the ground half-heartedly in uneven spikes. One of the monsters, undeterred, rushed forward and seized Alfyn, pressing him to the wall with one clawed hand and pointing a spear at him with the other. His face scrunched up with evident pain as its talons dug into his wounded shoulder.

Ophilia and Therion were both there instantly. The cleric bashed one of the flanking lizardmen’s heads in with her staff, while the thief went straight for the one that had Alfyn, plunging his dagger into it before it even had the chance to react. Its spear fell to the ground with a clatter, and so did Alfyn. 

“Shucks,” he breathed weakly, trying to stand up. “Guess I owe you twice now, Therion.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the thief said shortly, whirling on the remaining lizardman. Deciding they had it covered, Ophilia’s attention turned to Cyrus, who was battling several at once.

“Need some help, professor?” she called, rushing over to draw one’s attention to her.

He turned to give her a knowing smile, revealing a nasty cut under his eye. “Your timing is impeccable, as always.” Then he turned back to the two lizardmen approaching him and incapacitated them with some quick lightning magic, movements as precise and calculated as ever.

Ophilia, in the meantime, faced her lone opponent, who was not too keen on dying. It was much faster and skilled than the other lizardmen she’d been fighting, and it leapt out of the way of all her attacks before they could even come close to landing a hit. Getting impatient, she recklessly rushed forward to make a shorter ranged attack, but not before it raised up its spear in defense. Her face crashed into the wooden staff, and pain exploded through her skull. Staggering back and holding her nose, she held up a hand to expunge the lizardman with holy light.

That had done the trick, but now the cave and everyone in it spun around the cleric, and her legs shook beneath her. Then, in a moment of clarity, she saw countless more lizardmen pouring in, all ready for battle, and whirled around. And by some trick of the gods, she and Cyrus spoke their incantations at the same time.

“May the sacred Flame shine forth!”

“Oh, flames, rage strong!”

The result was incredible. A blinding light exploded throughout the cave and Ophilia stumbled backwards, shielding her eyes and feeling her back hit the cave wall. It was loud -- deafening. Then came the searing heat, making her skin prickle with a burning sensation. A cry escaped her mouth at the pain, but just as soon as it became unbearable it withdrew, diminishing along with the light at last. Holding the wall for support, it took a second for her vision to clear, and when it did she was greeted with a shocking sight.

Every single remaining lizardman lay on the ground, fried alive, their faces frozen in comical shock. It was gruesome. Then, looking up, she nearly laughed in spite of herself at the bewildered looks on her companions' faces, most of whom were looking quite disheveled after such a display. 

“How fascinating,” Ophilia heard Cyrus say, barely audibly.

“Good gods, you two, next time try not to kill _us_ , too!” Olberic roared, flicking some soot off his arm.

“That was amazing!” Tressa, who appeared to have been knocked over by the force, cried. She leapt up, stepping over carcass after carcass to make her way towards them. “Since when can you do that?”

Cyrus laughed, looking quite surprised himself. His hair had been blown out of his face -- as well as virtually every other direction -- and he attempted to absentmindedly tame it with one hand as he spoke. “Well, while I _must_ admit that wasn’t intentional, it did seem to do the trick.” 

“Indeed, twas quite the potent attack,” H’aanit agreed, attempting to comfort a rather frazzled-looking Linde. “Though I wouldst not recommend thou tryeth it again anytime soon.”

“You’re right.” Ophilia nodded sheepishly, trying not to look at the sizzling corpses underneath her. “That was far too dangerous.”

“Aw, you guys are no fun.” Tressa shooed it off. “We should come up with a name for that combo. Like ‘Holy Fire,’ or ‘Bright Flame!’”

“Names aside, I reckon you two took the concept of the ‘Sacred Flame’ a bit too literally,” Alfyn teased, and everyone’s attention was drawn to him. He was standing, but barely, and mostly with the assistance of Therion, whom he was draped over. Blood stained his shoulder.

“Oh, Alfyn!” Ophilia cried, hurrying towards him.

“Yeah, bad news,” he laughed shakily. “Can’t fight.”

“How convenient for us.” Therion rolled his eyes, but his arms shot out to steady the apothecary as he trembled with exhaustion. “Okay, I can’t do this for much longer. You need to sit down.”

The man complied, and allowed himself to be lowered against a large stone, wincing. Ophilia began moving to crouch beside him, healing hands at the ready, but a grip caught her shoulder. Whirling around, she found Cyrus, startlingly close. The cut underneath one of his worry-filled eyes was a striking red, but he paid the blood trickling from it no mind.

“Ophilia . . .” he started uncertainly.

“What?” The cleric stuck her chin up a little, despite herself. Though the look on his face was enough to make her a little weak in the knees, she was tired of being the center of everyone’s pity, and the fact that her magic had been more taxing than usual only fueled this frustration. It filled her with a sort of selfish pride, uncommon of her -- a desire to prove them all wrong. She’d do this, and she’d be fine. 

The professor bit his lip at her sharp remark, clearly unsure of how to continue. “I just want you to be careful,” he finally relinquished, gently. His hand released her shoulder, but he didn’t look away.

Despite her annoyance, Ophilia mustered a small smile, raising a hand to his cheek and brushing the angry cut with her thumb. She allowed a small surge of magic to seep through her hand and into the wound, closing it up in moments. Cyrus’s breath caught in his throat, but before he could say anything, she briskly turned away and back to the task at hand. Kneeling at Alfyn’s side, she held both hands over his wound and closed her eyes, feeling the familiar warmth blossom in her chest. She pressed her hands lightly onto his shoulder, and let the magic travel down through her arms and into the injury. The apothecary’s body relaxed, and a sigh of relief escaped his mouth.

“You can stop now, Phili,” he advised her after a moment. “I feel like I could take on a dozen mossy meeps -- promise.”

“I’m glad,” she said, rising to her feet. If only she felt the same. It took all of her willpower not to empty what was left of yesterday’s meals onto the cave floor, but her companions had enough to worry about as it was. Catching Cyrus’s eye, she offered a weak smile, but it didn’t seem to reassure him. His brow furrowed in concern.

Luckily for her, Primrose took hold of the conversation before they could cross that bridge. “We can’t stay here,” the dancer stated frankly. “Those attacks were sign enough for me.”

“You think we should keep going?” Tressa asked incredulously. “It’s the middle of the night!”

“Aye, and the snow showeth no signs of ceasing.” H’aanit extended a hand to the mouth of the cave, where the storm continued to rage outside. “Whether it would be wiser to remain here and fight the beasts that trespass, or face whatever lurketh in the blizzard, I know not.”

“Well, neither sounds particularly appealing,” Therion joined in moodily. “But I do prefer being warm _and_ in danger over the latter.”

Olberic folded his arms. “But how many more of those battles do you think we can take?” At the group’s silence, he continued. “What if twenty more come? We can only do so much.”

Nobody spoke, though the answer was clear. They weren’t gonna last much longer if the attacks kept up. Everyone was physically exhausted, and those who used magic knew of its limitations well. The odds didn’t look good.

“I suppose leaving is our best chance,” Cyrus finally broke the silence, looking outside distastefully.

But before they could let that truth sink in, a figure appeared at the mouth of the cave, holding a lantern. As the golden light washed over the floor, the group all sprang into battle stances, including Linde, who snarled ferociously. At the sight of their weapons, the figure held out two shaking hands. They appeared to be human, at the very least.

“Who art thou?” H’aanit inquired fiercely.

“Please, I mean no harm.” The voice was sturdy and feminine. “My name is Agnes. I live in a cabin nearby and heard the commotion, so I came to see what the fuss was about.”

“Yeah, and how do we know we can trust you?” Therion shuffled in front of Alfyn protectively.

She continued after a moment’s pause. “You don’t, really. But I’m someone who will help. These caves are dangerous and crawling with lizardmen. I can provide shelter for you all until the storm ends.”

Olberic looked meaningfully at H’aanit, and her gaze softened ever so slightly. “Removen thy hood,” she commanded, and the stranger complied.

It was a woman who looked to be in her early fifties. Loose strands of her tied-back auburn hair framed her square face, which was etched with scars and wrinkles alike. Her dark eyes glinted, but despite her intimidating appearance she smiled nervously at the group, revealing dimples. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“Then why are you armed?” Primrose cocked an eyebrow.

The woman glanced down at the shortsword strapped to her waist. “Well, it’d be rather foolish to head into a storm in this part of the Frostlands without a weapon, if you don’t mind me saying it.”

“She has a point,” Alfyn, ever the trusting one, offered from over Therion’s shoulder.

“I just want to help,” she spoke firmly. “If you want to refuse that help, that’s up to you. But I offer humble accommodations for those who seek shelter, and, well, you all seem like you could use it.”

The group went silent, exchanging glances until Cyrus, who had been quietly studying her the whole time, spoke.

“She seems to be sincere, from what I’ve seen. And it _would_ be nice to have somewhere that isn’t a cave to rest my head.”

“And if she turns out to be a liar, I think we can take her,” Therion added darkly.

Ophilia nodded. Personally, she just wanted somewhere to lie down at the moment, and if this woman was to provide it, who was she to complain? Other nods and murmurs of agreement rose from everyone except Primrose, who continued to look at the stranger sharply, mouth curled into an unimpressed frown.

“I’m not so sure.”

“Primrose.” Ophilia laid a comforting hand on the dancer’s arm. “It’ll be all right. I believe she truly wants to help us.”

H’aanit, who appeared to still have some doubts herself, crouched next to Linde and murmured something into her ear. The snow leopard obediently bounded over to the woman, still frozen at the entrance, and circled her, sniffing. To Ophilia’s surprise, the stranger seemed hardly fazed by the beast in such close proximity; her face was as calm as can be.

After a few seconds, Linde stopped and cocked her head at the woman. She smiled ever so slightly and reached down to run her hand through the creature’s fur, causing a low purr to emanate from Linde’s throat. H’aanit raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed.

“Thy name is Agnes?” she asked, her voice losing its edge.

“Yes.” The woman’s demeanor melted back into its previous seriousness as she stopped petting Linde to look at the group once more.

The huntress crossed the cave, closing the distance between the two of them. After an awkward pause, she extended a hand. “Linde trusteth thee so I do as well. My name is H’aanit, a hunter of the Woodlands.”

Agnes clasped H’aanit’s hand firmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss.” Then she turned to everyone else, who immediately began offering hasty apologies and introductions. She seemed mostly unaffected, laughing it off and earnestly shaking their hands. Upon meeting Ophilia, however, she got especially excited. The cleric did her best to smile through the pain as the woman’s iron grip nearly broke her fingers.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Sister Ophilia,” she gushed, finally letting go after a few agonizing seconds. “Of course I’ve heard about you, living so close to Flamesgrace and all, but getting the chance to actually speak with the Flamebearer? Amazing.”

Ophilia couldn’t help but smile, despite her cheeks flushing in embarrassment at the praise -- something she wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to. The more she spoke with her, the more Agnes seemed like a normal woman, which was a relief. Every ounce of her was heavy with exhaustion, and the more she could trust the provider of her bed, the easier she’d rest.

“My cabin is only a fifteen minute’s trip from here,” Agnes announced, once introductions were over. “I’d be on your guard, though.” With a tap on the hilt of her sword, she continued. “It’s hard to notice danger here as it is, and the storm will only make it worse. Monsters could pop up at any second.” Then she nodded towards Therion, who was helping Alfyn up. “I’d keep a close watch on your friend, there. He’s wounded; the most likely to be targeted first.”

The thief opened his mouth, probably to deny his inescapable yet ever-strengthening relationship with the apothecary, but appeared to change his mind. “Right,” he muttered after a moment’s pause, adjusting his scarf higher.

“All right, then.” Agnes lifted her lantern up invitingly. “Let’s --” Her voice cut off unexpectedly as she laid eyes on Tressa, who was attempting to stuff the stone chest in her bag, which was already bursting at the seams. A brief flash of something like recognition flitted through her eyes, and Ophilia noticed right away. But then, as quickly as she’d stopped, she started again. “Pardon me. Let’s set out. Everyone stay close, now.”

The snow was still falling down heavily as they ventured outside, but the howling winds from earlier had calmed down into a light yet bitter breeze. Underneath them, the snow coating the ground was nearly a foot higher than it was when they entered the cave, and both Primrose and Therion cursed quietly as their legs sunk into it. Even Ophilia shivered a bit. It was certainly a different world out there when they didn’t have the sun on their backs. Despite the storm’s decrease in intensity, the valley was still consumed with a thick haze, and Agnes’s lantern served as a beacon of sorts for the travelers to follow in the darkness.

As the woman gathered everyone -- including the colossal Olberic, which made for quite an amusing sight -- around her like a mother hen with her chicks, Ophilia felt unease eating away at her. Nobody else had seemed to notice it, but Agnes had some sort of connection with Tressa’s chest. Why else would it have brought her to a halt like that? This, on top of the lizardmen being after it . . . what did any of it mean?

“Ophilia.” Cyrus’s quiet voice broke through her thoughts. “What’s troubling you?” She looked over at him in surprise, coming to the sudden realization that she’d been lagging behind everyone else. 

“Huh?”

He shook his head, nearly smiling. “You really think you could lose that radiant, peaceful countenance of yours and expect me not to notice?” Then his face quickly melted back into concern. “Is it your magic? Are you hurt?”

“Well -- I --” She felt very warm all of a sudden, staring down at the soft snow beneath her. _Focus, Ophilia_ , she had to scold herself back into reality. They trailed a few feet behind the rest of the group now, close enough not to concern anyone, but private enough so their conversation wouldn’t be overheard.

“Agnes saw the chest,” she finally admitted softly, brushing her hair out of her face. “That’s why she was acting so strange just now. She saw Tressa packing it and this look just came over her face; I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I think she knows something about it -- something we don’t.”

This confession elicited just the response she’d expected it would. Cyrus’s eyes widened, an excited glow dancing in them; there was nothing he loved more than a mystery.

“Really? How interesting.” A thousand theories already seemed to be whirling around inside his head. “Yet another addition to the strange events surrounding this chest. I suppose we’ll have to ask her more about it later.” 

Ophilia nodded, looking ahead at Agnes, who was talking with Tressa at the head of the group. The merchant had taken a liking to the woman almost instantly, and judging by the jubilant, animated tone of the conversation, the feelings were mutual. Then her eyes trailed to Alfyn, wedged between Therion and Olberic, who both gave off a subtle defensive aura, as if challenging any monster that may be hiding in the snow to try their luck. The apothecary, for the most part, looked as cheerful as ever, though the occasional laugh or broad movement caused him to wince in pain.

“I worry about him,” she admitted, noticing Cyrus following her gaze.

He nodded solemnly. “At a time like this, it’s rather hard not to. It’s frightful, what happened to him. And no trace of the beast that inflicted such wounds. Even H’aanit seems perplexed about the situation.” His expression was thoughtful. “I suppose the best we can do for him at the moment is keep him healthy.”

“I know,” Ophilia replied impatiently. “But I feel like he’s being too dismissive of the matter. He keeps trying to act like everything’s fine for our sakes, as if he’s not allowed to feel pain. Him being hurt isn’t a burden to us!”

“Quite frustrating indeed,” Cyrus agreed. “In fact, I can think of someone else I know who acts very similar.” He gave her a sly smile, and she felt a surge of indingnacy. Was he . . . teasing her?

“. . . That’s different,” she finally said after a few moments, unable to come up with a rebuttal.

The professor laughed at her wounded expression. “I’m sorry, my dear, but it had to be said. You and Alfyn truly are two pages from the same book. And I mean it, you know." He shook his head disapprovingly. "If you aren’t careful, you’re going to end up bedridden with me fussing over you again. Is that really what you want?”

Ophilia felt her cheeks grow hot at the memory of such an event days earlier. Knowing she couldn’t be fully honest with him in that regard, she changed the subject. “Well, while we’re on the topic of unhealthy habits, Cyrus, perhaps we should address your tendency of getting a mere two to three hours of sleep at night?”

Now it was his turn to look sheepish. “I told you, I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

“Then how come every time I look, you seem a moment away from collapsing?” 

A solemn look overtook the professor’s face, but just as he opened his mouth to respond, a horrible noise filled the air. It sounded like something between a scream and a howl, magnified and huge. Ophilia clamped her hands over her ears, feeling like her head was going to split in two. This sound was familiar -- where had she heard it before?

“What was that?” Tressa cried when it died down, frantically seizing her spear.

Agnes’s face had gone white. “We need to go!” she yelled to the group, eyes wide. “Follow me, and keep running!”

So, without time to question it, the group took off after her, footsteps crunching in the snow. The landscape felt unfamiliar, even to Ophilia, but Agnes seemed to know exactly where she was going -- and she ran surprisingly quickly, for a middle aged woman. It was strangely quiet now, the echo of the noise long gone and only their footsteps and ragged breaths breaking the silence.

But after an indefinite amount of time, the noise came again, ringing through the air ragefully. It was louder now, and nearly knocked the travelers over. Ophilia felt her cloak get caught up in a large burst of air as something huge rushed by her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Whatever this creature was now stood in front of the group, facing Agnes. It was hard to make out through the snow, but there were a few definite features -- it was large, about ten feet tall, and it was dark. Glowing yellow eyes glinted at them from the silhouette, and it let out something akin to a growl. Ahead of Ophilia and Cyrus, Alfyn went stiff.

“Oh, gods.”

An overwhelming sense of dread overcame Ophilia.

“What is it?” Therion asked harshly, turning to face him. His hand was wrapped around his dagger, knuckles white. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s it,” Alfyn quavered, reaching to touch his wounded arm instinctively. “That’s the thing that attacked me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAH I'M SORRY FOR KEEPING YOU GUYS WAITING FOR SO LONG ALSO SURPRISE THERE'S PLOT  
> The writing in this chapter just felt . . . off to me. I can't really explain it it's just how I feel lol. But I hope you enjoyed it anyways!  
> It's looking like my upload schedule is going to be a little whacky, but I'll do my best to get chapters out as quickly as possible. I promise I'm not abandoning this anytime soon!  
> Also thank you to everyone who's been leaving positive comments, it makes my day every time! I love you all!


	8. Chapter 8

In all her days of travel, Ophilia had never seen such a creature.

It was inky black, darker than any cavern or the night sky above them, looking less like a living being and more like a black hole, sucking the light out of everything around it. There didn’t seem to be a texture to the surface either -- just a void of darkness that had no shape or volume.

Of what species it could be, she wasn’t sure. Its figure was constantly shifting and changing, one moment bearing a vague resemblance to a wolf, then smoothly morphing into a raven-like creature the next. It was almost as if its flesh was made out of clay, or even water. The only aspect of it that remained unchanging were its sinister golden eyes. Like fiery flecks of amber, they glinted down at the group, sweeping over each member silently. When its gaze brushed over Ophilia, she flinched, feeling the ghost of a white hot pain shoot right through her. It was like it could see into her soul.

And for a moment, all that could be heard was the howling wind, as the group stood still, frozen in fear. That moment passed quickly, as H’aanit drew her bow. 

“Linde!” she cried out, signaling the snow leopard to surge forward as she fired a precise arrow at the beast’s heart. But though the shot was perfect, the projectile merely glanced off the creature’s chest like it was nothing. The monster, clearly unimpressed, turned to lock eyes with a rapidly approaching Linde, who stopped dead in her tracks under its penetrating stare. Slowly, after a second of contemplation, she lowered her head and backed away.

H’aanit’s eyes widened at the sight, and Ophilia felt her stomach drop. Linde had never run from a fight, even when battling monsters twice the size of this thing. 

The rest of the group had been stuck in a sort of stupefied trance at the sight, but now Olberic rushed forward, sword in hand. Agnes attempted to warn him as he passed, reaching out to grab for his arm.

“Sir, _no_!”

But it was too late. The knight had already aimed for the creature’s leg, which was now covered in luminous dark scales. Eyes blazing, he swung the blade at full force, and to everyone’s surprise, it passed through the limb like a hand through water, causing him to lurch forward in surprise. He steadied himself, a look of frustration and bewilderment cast over his face, and leapt backwards to avoid the monster’s jagged black claws.

The creature was agitated now. A low growl filled the air as it stalked towards them slowly, seeming to consider whether they were worth the fight or not. Then its eyes fell on Alfyn, who was fumbling for his axe, and narrowed.

A wave of panic washed over Ophilia. She rushed forward, pushing past Therion to stand in front of the apothecary. “Get Alfyn out of here!” she called over her shoulder at the thief.

“What?” Alfyn’s face was stubborn, and she could already see the refusal forming on his lips, so she turned to Therion instead.

“Therion, I need you to get Alfyn as far away from this creature as possible.”

The thief’s face was pale in the dim lantern light, but he gave a slight nod at the command. Alfyn looked at him in disbelief.

“Why --” 

“It’s targeting you, and putting you in further danger would make us rather poor teammates,” Cyrus interrupted solemnly, moving to stand by Ophilia. “We’ll keep it distracted while you two run.”

Tressa, seeming to catch on, suddenly split from the group, waving her spear wildly through the air. “Hey, ugly, over here!” she screeched, taking care to be as obnoxious as possible.

H’aanit looked after her in bewilderment for a moment before understanding. Quickly, she followed suit, running after Tressa and shooting arrow after arrow at the creature. “Indeed! If thou wantest a fight, a fight thou shalt receive!”

This was enough of a diversion to pry the beast’s attention away from Alfyn momentarily, and the remaining members all turned to look at him.

“But --” This time Primrose was the one to cut him off.

“We’ll be okay. Just go.”

His panicked eyes darted between her and the monster, who was slowly beginning to tire of the wild goose chase the others had set up. Therion laid a hesitant hand on his arm suddenly, jolting him out of it.“We’ll find them, okay?” the thief said, so quietly it was almost inaudible over the roar of the wind.

This seemed to comfort Alfyn. “Okay . . . okay.” He nodded slowly, and then looked back at the group, mustering a weak smile. “See you guys later?”

“Look forward to it,” Ophilia replied, gently.

And with that, the two of them took off running into the snowy haze, just in time for the beast to turn and notice. Giving that awful cry and making Ophilia shudder, it whipped around, flicking snow all over Tressa and H’aanit, and began pursuing their retreating backs.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Cyrus yelled, leaving Ophilia’s side to sprint after it. His fingers crackled with electricity as a shock of lightning blasted from one hand, which collided with the monster. Unlike the attacks before, this hit seemed to have some effect. Easily distracted, it turned to look for the source of the blast, growling.

“Well, at least it’s not smart,” Primrose muttered, then turned to yell at Olberic. “What do we do now?”

The knight frowned, sword still held up in a defensive position. “I think Cyrus has the right idea; try using magic. You saw what happened earlier when H’aanit and I tried to use our weapons.” He threw Agnes a cautious glance, but the woman just drew her sword and grinned.

“Well then, it looks like you and I are gonna have to follow your merchant’s example then.” Without hesitation, she began crashing the flat of her sword against the metal lantern, making a loud clanging noise. This drew the monster’s attention long enough for Tressa to send a violent gust of wind its way. 

“Right.” The knight nodded, giving a loud battle cry before joining the distraction.

Ophilia, during all of this, was trying everything she could to summon the strength for just one more light attack. The weakness she’d suppressed was beginning to return, and while Cyrus, Tressa, Primrose, and even H’aanit cut away at the creature with magical attacks, she leaned against her staff just to remain standing as another dizzy spell overtook her. 

_Perhaps I should have gone with Alfyn and Therion when I had the chance._

But the duo had disappeared into the storm, eliminating that option. Shaking her head, Ophilia pressed forward one shaky step at a time. If she could just get a little _closer_ . . .

Ahead of her, H’aanit shoved Primrose out of harm’s way before quickly sending a shot of lightning at the monster, who was getting angrier by the second. It now looked like a giant bat, who bared its fangs at the travelers before lunging at Cyrus with its talons. The scholar barely evaded the attack with a frantic cry before casting a wave of flames towards the threat.

Ophilia had seen enough. The distance between her and the monster had been steadily closed while the others provided a convenient diversion. She felt positively sick, and she wasn’t sure if it was going to work, but she had to try. Underneath her, her legs shook, and her stomach churned as the beast gave off a smell of something burnt.

 _Please, Aelfric, just one more time,_ she begged silently, before holding her staff out and bracing herself. “Oh, sacred light!”

And, by the grace of the gods, a pillar of light struck down from above, illuminating the shadowy creature and eliciting its worst scream yet. Ophilia’s vision blurred as she sank to her knees, too tired to even cover her ears. For an eternity it seemed, there was blankness and nonfeeling, like she had been detached from the world and everything in it. Then, finally, the heaviness in her limbs returned, and the chill of the snow underneath her seeped through her dress. She felt disconnected, almost as if she didn’t fit quite right into her body, but she was alive, and as her sight cleared she came to a relieving realization -- the beast was nowhere to be seen.

“Ophilia!” 

And suddenly, in a flurry of black and gold, she was being pulled up into a warm embrace. Even in her dissociated state, she’d recognize the faint scent of ginger and old parchment anywhere. She attempted to speak, but words failed her, so instead she relaxed in Cyrus’s arms. After a moment of steady breathing, she tried it again.

It came out as a slight murmur. “What happened?” 

“You did it, of course.” His voice lowered to match hers, and although he sounded calm as ever she could feel his heart pounding against her.

“Hey, am I invited to this hug?” Tressa’s cheerful voice called out. Cyrus drew away, looking mildly embarrassed, and Ophilia barely had time to process what was happening before she was wrenched out of the professor’s arms by H’aanit, who promptly began checking her for injuries.

“It was strange,” Olberic mused, walking over as Ophilia was examined. “We bombarded that beast with all the magic we had, but it only fled when you used your light.”

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” Tressa put in. “Black, shadowy, and with those evil eyes? That was a dark magic monster for sure! And those things are weak to light magic, right Cyrus?” She couldn’t see the merchant, but Ophilia could hear the self satisfaction in her voice.

A smile grazed the professor’s face. “It’s nice to know you haven’t slept through _all_ of my ramblings, dear Tressa.”

H’aanit, finally satisfied, let Ophilia go with a disapproving tut. “I beginnen to wish our Ophilia was not the answer to every plight we faceth.” At this comment, the cleric managed a weak laugh, though she was beginning to feel the same way herself.

“Oh, H’aanit, your concern is most meaningful, but with some rest I’ll be fine.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever managed to fight it off,” Agnes, who had sheathed her sword, said. She looked at the group in awe. “I’m beginning to be really glad I found you all.”

“So you’ve fought this creature before?” Olberic asked as everyone turned to look at her quickly.

Agnes nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid that beast and I have a bit of history.” She held her hands up quickly as all their expressions changed in turn. “Listen, it’s a long story, and I promise I’ll tell you everything I know as soon as I can. But first, we really should get to my cabin, where it’s safe. It’ll be light soon, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

“What about Alfyn and Therion?” Primrose spoke for the first time since the battle had ended, the edge of mistrust still evident in her voice. “They’re still out there.”

Agnes furrowed her brow. “With any luck, they’ve found their way to my home already,” she finally said, after a moment of contemplation. “Whatever the case is, it’ll be a good place to regroup. If they aren’t there, we’ll start a search immediately.”

“Therion may be difficult, but I doubt he’d let anything happen to Alfyn,” Cyrus further reassured her. “And he’s an exceptional fighter. I wouldn’t underestimate him.”

Primrose’s scowl didn’t disappear, but she didn’t argue either. With a sardonic wave of her hand, she gestured for Agnes to lead the way.

“Thank you, dear.” She gave the dancer a motherly smile before starting forward, lantern held high. Primrose scoffed, but followed close behind.

“Canst thou walk, Ophilia?” H’aanit inquired, turning to look at the cleric in concern.

Ophilia was feeling more exhausted than ever now, but after a few moments of gaining her bearings, she was able to walk without much assistance. The group ventured on through the snow in a dull silence, taking a few unsuccessful detours to look for Therion and Alfyn. Luckily enough, they didn’t encounter any more monsters, and by the time they reached Agnes’s home the sun was beginning to inch over the peaks. Overhead, the clouds had retreated to reveal a clear blue sky. 

The cabin was actually bigger than Ophilia was expecting, made from sturdy logs over half her height and the roof rising so high above them that she wondered if there was a second floor. Behind the building was a large pen made of wooden beams, with a couple fluffy horned creatures milling about inside.

After unlocking the front door with a small iron key, Agnes turned around and gave everyone a weary smile. 

“Now you all just head inside. I’d better feed the oxen really quick. Then I’ll be right there. Make yourselves at home!”

And without the energy to be wary, the exhausted group stumbled inside.

The tantalizing aroma of oil and salt hit Ophilia as she stepped into the cabin, making her mouth water. Now that she thought about it, they hadn’t eaten a full meal since nearly a day ago. Following the scent, her eyes trailed past the humble wooden furniture and towards the back of the room, where there was a modest kitchen space. Dried meat hung off the rafters, and a plethora of diverse herbs and spices lined the shelves. Against the wall was an enormous stone fireplace, with none other than Therion himself crouched in front of it.

“Ah, Therion! You made it.” Olberic’s loud voice filled the room, and the thief turned around sharply to hold a finger to his lips.

“Quiet down, old man,” he hissed, neither surprised nor particularly excited to see them. “I finally got him to sleep.” As he spoke he gestured to a corner of the room on their immediate right, where two beds Ophilia hadn’t noticed at first lined the wall with a small table wedged between them. Sprawled across the farther one was Alfyn, seemingly asleep -- though she wasn’t sure she could ever trust that again. His long limbs were spread every which way, hanging off the edges of the bed. A tired Linde strutted over to his side, giving his arm a soft lick before curling up and promptly falling asleep on the floor next to him.

“He was practically sick with worry,” Therion continued, turning to face the fire again. “Going on about ‘what if they get killed’ and ‘we have to go back’ and anything else he could manage to agonize over. Luckily, he was too tired to stay awake for long.” There was a pause as he stoked the fire. “And it’s good that you guys didn’t die. He would’ve found some way to blame himself.”

“What are you doing?” Tressa asked curiously as she and the others crossed the room to peer over his shoulder.

There was a large, flat pan propped over the fire, and atop it sizzled three sloppily-shaped eggs. They smelled even better up close. Therion grabbed a wooden turner hanging off the mantle above him and flipped each of them over one by one as everyone stared in silence. Finally, he looked up at them in dull irritation.

“What?” 

“Are you cooking breakfast?” Primrose asked skeptically. 

Therion’s cheeks colored. “Well, _someone_ had to do it.” At the silence that followed, he continued defensively. “Did you seriously think I couldn’t cook?”

“Well --” Cyrus paused, clearly trying to be tactful. “We’ve never _seen_ you cook before.”

The thief gave one of the most impressive eyerolls Ophilia had ever seen. “Wow, what infallible logic, professor. I don’t steal _all_ my food, you know.” He paused again, staring into the flames. “Besides, we didn’t know when you’d be coming, _if_ you’d be coming. With Alfyn in the state he’s in, I wasn’t going to have him bumbling around the kitchen making who knows what --”

“Therion,” Ophilia cut him off gently, offering a smile. “I think it’s very kind of you.”

H’aanit nodded in agreement. “Aye, and it smelleth delicious. But, if thou do not minden me asking, whom is the third egg for?”

Her question was answered quickly as a newcomer came bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen. It was a young boy, who couldn’t be older than ten, with tired eyes and tousled hair that matched Agnes’s. Strangely enough, he didn’t seem surprised at all to see the diverse group of strangers in his house.

“Hi,” he said, raising a polite hand.

“Ah, there you are, pipsqueak,” Therion said absentmindedly as some of the others greeted him back. “Listen, I need you to find me some more eggs to feed this sorry bunch.”

The boy nodded obediently and crossed the room to reveal a trapdoor hidden in the floorboards. After swinging the door open, he slipped down into the cellar underneath noiselessly.

“So,” said Tressa, after a moment of awkward silence. “Agnes has a kid.”

Therion nodded. “Little runt found us wandering in the storm. Took one look at Alfyn’s injuries and led us back here. A little quiet, but hey, better than the alternative.” He stood up quickly and winced, bringing a hand to his side. Ophilia watched as he drew it away quickly and began rummaging through the cupboards, pulling several dishes out. She’d nearly forgotten that Therion was injured, too; he was significantly better at hiding it than she or Alfyn was, that was for sure. The room was quiet for a moment as he slid each of the eggs off the pan and onto plates.

Then the front door opened with a bang, startling them all as a rosy-cheeked Agnes stepped inside. “Sorry about that, bloody creatures were being a nuisance today,” she explained, messily shedding her layers and tossing her sword carelessly onto the table. Then her eyes flickered from a snoring Alfyn to Therion in the kitchen. “Ah, looks like you two found your way. Good, good!”

“Well, we did have some help,” Therion replied, not even bothering to look her way as he set a plate on Alfyn’s bedside table.

Agnes’s jovial expression wavered for a moment as she hung her scarf. “Help? Who --”

“Me.” A small voice piped up, and everyone’s heads snapped over to look at the boy, who’d climbed out of the cellar with a basket of eggs. He stood up to give the woman a piercing look, unfitting of a child his age.

Agnes bit her lip, looking guilty. “Oh, erm, Galen. Good to . . . see you up this early.”

* * *

Breakfast was awkward, to say the least. Most of the group sat at the round table, eyes bleary, while those who couldn’t fit sat on the beds or floor. Alfyn, now awake, sat up in bed against the wall, trying his best to shakily eat his eggs left-handed. He was the most well-rested out of all of them; Ophilia had to shake herself every time she felt her head drooping, and Tressa had fallen asleep face first on her greasy plate after scarfing up breakfast. Everyone ate in uncomfortable silence for the most part, as a few sharp words were exchanged between Galen and Agnes.

“You said you wouldn’t leave in the middle of the night again, mum.” The boy poked at his food absentmindedly as he spoke. 

“I know, Gal, I know,” Agnes replied, scratching her head. “But the lizardfolk have been so restless these days, and I just had a gut feeling --”

“That’s what you say every time.”

Agnes winced at the blunt statement, but continued. “And this time I was actually onto something. These lovely folks were trapped in a cave, getting ambushed. I had to do something, didn’t I? And --”

Galen cut her off. “Oh, fine, mum. Just let me eat.” 

“There’s something else, Gal,” she persisted, voice quieting suddenly. “While we were out there, we saw it.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “The Nightmare?”

“Yes. And _they fought it off_.”

Those words were enough to drive away Galen’s sullen attitude. He turned to look at each member of the group in reverent awe, as the apparent weight of the situation pressed down on them.

“So that’s what you call this beast?” Olberic ventured after the silence hung for a moment. “The Nightmare?”

Agnes nodded, her dark eyes growing stormy. “Yes. It’s been haunting us for years now, and we don’t know what it means. All we know is that it’s evil. Pure evil.”

“Wait,” Primrose cut in. “If this has been an issue for _years_ , how was today the first time you’ve fought it off? How have you survived all this time?”

“It doesn’t always attack,” she explained solemnly. “Sometimes it’ll just . . . appear, and then something awful always happens. Coming down with sickness, lizardfolk attacks, food being raided -- it’s always after one of us sees it. And when it _has_ fought . . .” she showed the scars etched into her face and arms, “I’ve ended up running, or getting lucky.”

There was another bout of silence. 

“You said when ‘one of you’ sees it,” Ophilia said, looking up. “I hope you don't mind my asking, but do you have other children besides Galen?”

“Three,” Agnes replied. “They’ve all left the nest, but the Nightmare hasn’t followed them. It’s stuck around.”

H’aanit folded her arms, looking thoughtful. “Is there anything else thou can tellen us about the beast?”

“It only comes at night,” Galen spoke quietly, though his eyes were glued to the table.

“Right.” Agnes took one of his small hands in her own before continuing. “When the sun rises, it vanishes, which has helped me make some narrow escapes in the past.” She hesitated, as if considering whether to keep going or not. “There’s another thing. Ever since Galen was little, it’s been . . . _in_ his dreams, giving him anxiety and sleepless nights. We’ve tried everything from exorcisms to psychics, and no one can seem to help.” Her eyes swept over them, heavy with the look of hopelessness. “That’s why we’ve taken to calling it the Nightmare.”

Ophilia’s gaze flitted over to Galen, and an overwhelming sorrow for the boy grasped at her. Now that she knew, she could see it in him. The haunted look in his dark eyes, the somber silence he kept to, and the noticeable lack of energy he had for a young boy -- it was all the result of a creature more mysterious than any monster they’d fought yet.

But before she could offer the words of comfort forming on her lips, Therion, who sat cross-legged on the floor, spoke. “I have a question. If this thing’s so set on bothering you two exclusively, why’d it go after Alfyn?”

This caused them to all turn and look at the apothecary. Everyone was wide awake now; even Tressa had been lightly shaken awake by H’aanit, albeit grumpily. Alfyn set his plate aside and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before looking up at them in weary resignation. “Listen, guys, I _know_ that was it --”

“We believe you, Alfyn,” Primrose interrupted him, sharply but not unkindly. “We just want to hear more.”

“Perhaps now is the time for thou to share what happened that eve,” H’aanit added. “What thou canst remember, that is.”

Alfyn looked taken aback by the sudden interest, but shrugged. “Alrighty. I dunno how much it’ll help, but I’ll tell ya.” He leaned forward as everyone listened intently. “I was on the lookout for a rare plant, one that I’ve been reading about recently that’s rumored to grow exclusively in the Flatlands. It’s said to heal wounds quickly and efficiently. Therion’s side wound had been really buggin’ him, see, and I wanted to make sure that --”

“Oh, just get to the story,” Therion cut in, looking self-conscious, and Ophilia and a few of the others did their best to hide smiles.

“All right, all right,” Alfyn gave in. “So after a bit of pokin’ around at the market, I headed to the forest to look. It’s the only forest in the Flatlands, so I thought it may be a good place to search for rare plants.”

“Right.” Agnes nodded, looking as if she was taking in every last detail. “Go on.”

“Well, I was nearly right. I found all kinds of things I’d never experimented with before, but no special healing herb, so I just kept lookin’. I guess I wasn’t really keepin’ track of time, and by the time I realized how long I’d been gone, it had to be around midnight. I decided it was best to head back and try another time, and that’s when it happened.” 

His smile faded, and the goofiness slipped out of his voice as he continued. “I didn’t even have much time to look before it was on me, tossin’ me around like a ragdoll.” He balled his good hand into a fist, clenching the bedsheets to keep it from shaking. “And then, after a while it just _stopped_. I dunno why, but it decided not to finish me off for whatever reason. I must’ve passed out after that, though, cause I don’t remember anything else.”

“Oh, Alf,” Tressa breathed after a moment of silence.

“I would’ve rather that never happened to you,” Ophilia said softly, and the rest of the group murmured in agreement.

“It’s okay, you guys.” Alfyn shook his head, taking an upbeat tone once more. “I’m all right. I lived.”

“But barely,” Olberic added matter-of-factly.

“I have a strange request of you,” Agnes broke in suddenly, turning everyone’s attention back to her. She looked nervous, even more so than before. “Tressa, was it?”

The merchant straightened, looking just as uneasy. “Yeah?”

“I couldn’t help but notice as you were packing -- may I see that chest you have?”

Ophilia and Cyrus exchanged meaningful glances. Tressa looked around at the group cautiously, as if waiting for an answer. When only provided with a slight nod from Olberic, she got up and crossed the room to where her enormous pack sat against the wall. Opening it carefully, she grabbed the chest and brought it over to the table, setting it down in the middle with a _thunk_.

Tension filled the air as Agnes quietly traced the carvings in the stone with a finger, taking in every detail of the chest. After a moment of this, she broke away from it abruptly and hurried upstairs without a word, leaving the group to uncertainly stare at each other. No one dared speak. Bumps and slamming noises from upstairs alluded to Agnes rummaging through several drawers, and after what felt like forever, she came downstairs with one of the most worn down books Ophilia had ever seen. It had yellowing, ripped pages, and was barely held together by a narrow strip of leather down the spine -- Cyrus looked scandalized by the very sight of it. 

Throwing it open on the table, Agnes flipped through the book frantically, coming to a stop on a particular page. Leaning forward curiously with the others, Ophilia managed to get a glimpse of what was on the page. In faded ink, drawn in messy strokes, was a depiction of the very chest that sat before them. From the detailing to the shape to the metal latch that kept it shut, it was the same -- there was no mistaking it.

“Well, I’ll be.” Rubbing her head soberly, the woman sank down into her chair. She looked drained. “I’m truly sorry. You folks have no idea what you’ve gotten yourselves into.”

* * *

Ophilia wasn’t sure when her consciousness left her. She knew she should’ve been wide awake after Agnes said those words, but the exhaustion had been wearing her down all morning, and it was only a matter of time before it overtook her. The last of her waking moments had been filled with confusion, as Agnes sat in deep discussion with everyone, particularly the older members, around the table. Words such as “sorcery”, “legacy”, and “remnants” were thrown around. Cyrus, who’d barely spoken a word since they’d arrived, finally broke his silence to contribute heavily to the conversation. 

She hadn’t caught much other than that; it had all faded into a hazy and faraway blur, and the harder she tried to be present the more tired she got. The one thing she could glean was the serious tone of the discussion. After that she must have fallen asleep, because those were the last of her memories before she woke up in a new room.

The cleric tried to get a grasp on reality as she stared up at the wooden beams above her, senses dulled by sleepiness. After a moment's inspection she found she felt heavy but, thankfully, much better. Her bed was large and comfortable, and a thick quilt had been spread over her. An aromatic smell of spice and something sweet filled the room. Looking around for a moment, Ophilia finally pegged its source: a small red candle on her bedside table. This intrigued her -- she’d never heard of a candle with such a distinct scent before.

Then she returned to her senses, and several questions formed in her head. First of all, where was she? From the looks of it, probably still in Agnes’s home, she reasoned with herself, perhaps in an upstairs room. Next, had she passed out? That one was easy -- yes. She’d been fainting so often lately, it was hardly a surprise. And finally, what had been going on before she lost consciousness?

That one was harder to answer. She remembered the gathering around the table, the hushed tones of everyone involved, the look on Agnes’s face when she matched the chest to the drawing in her book. But other than that the memories were just a heap of jumbled up words and faces, lost when she fainted.

As if summoned by her call for answers, the door creaked open and Cyrus stepped in, holding a steaming bowl. His cloak and vest had been shed, leaving only his white shirt tucked neatly into his pants. The sight of him so comfortable posed a new question in Ophilia’s mind -- how long had she been asleep? There were no windows in the room to provide an answer. Seeing her awake, Cyrus offered a smile, but a different one than usual. It seemed strained, somehow.

“Oh, it’s great to see you up, my dear.” He set the bowl by the candle on the bedside table, then knelt at her side.

“How long have I --”

“About a day,” he cut in, surprising her. Interruptions weren’t a common occurrence with Cyrus; he was too polite for such things. “You fell unconscious after breakfast yesterday.”

“Well, I’m feeling better, if that gives you any comfort.” She grabbed the hot bowl carefully and took a sip -- H’aanit’s famous stew, no doubt about it.

“That it does.” Cyrus smiled again, but there was still a forced quality to it that didn’t seem genuine. This, on top of the nervous way he spoke . . . he was keeping something from her. Ophilia tilted her head.

“Something’s wrong. What is it?”

He grimaced. “Ah, Primrose was right. I really am easy to read.”

Remembering their conversation in the cave, Ophilia leaned forward to lay a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Cyrus. You can tell me.”

The professor’s gaze shifted meekly away from her as he spoke. “Well, we’ve all been discussing things in light of recent events . . .” 

_Uh oh_. His voice already had the tone of a parent trying to break bad news to their child as calmly as possible.

“. . . And we’ve come to the conclusion that it would be best if you and I were to stay here as the group continues to Stillsnow.”

Well she wasn’t expecting that. “What?” she asked in disbelief, trying to figure out the reasoning behind it. “Is this about my health, because --”

“Well, yes, and no,” he interrupted her again, still not meeting her eyes.

The ever-so-slight creak of the door reached Ophilia’s ears, and she looked over to see Agnes lingering in the doorway. When they locked eyes, the woman slowly made her way into the room to stand beside Cyrus. The cleric looked back and forth between them. “What’s going on?”

Cyrus spoke again, voice calmly metered. “Well, in that chest we acquired, there were certain items -- the books, that is.”

“The ones we studied?” Ophilia asked, recalling the night in the tavern when Alfyn had gone missing.

He nodded. “Yes. And, you see, it seems there was a very particular type of dark magic imbued in those books that -- well, that is to say -- in layman’s terms --”

“Oh, get on with it, professor,” Agnes cut him off impatiently, then moved to lay a wrinkled hand on one of Ophilia’s arms. “It's a very long story, dear, but from what we know the moment you touched those books, they transferred their dark magic to you. In other words, the two of you are cursed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the CEO of long updates and falling back on cliffhangers 😔 But anyways, for anyone who's still here, welcome back! I have a ton of plans for this story and I hope to update more frequently, but we'll see how that goes. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and as always, I love seeing your comments! Thank you for inspiring me to keep writing!


	9. Chapter 9

Any newcomer passing by the small town of Fernwick wouldn’t give it much thought. Sitting right on the border of the Flatlands and Frostlands, it was often overlooked by travelers, as it hardly compared to the size and grandeur of the two cities it sat between -- Flamesgrace and Atlasdam. That being said, it wasn’t a poor town. The streets were paved, the buildings sturdy, and there was plenty of wildlife to hunt. At first glance, it would seem like a perfectly orderly village, without much to it.

But if you’d journeyed along Orsterra’s beaten trails long enough, you’d know that there was more to Fernwick than meets the eye. Rumors about the town traveled quickly between merchants and caravaners. Rumors about the unexplainable accidents that occurred within its borders. Sudden outbreaks of disease, buildings going up in smoke without explanation, and, of course, the disappearances. 

Due to this, it was an unspoken rule between the town members that whenever unsuspecting tourists arrived -- who’d somehow managed to avoid those terrible rumors on the road -- they’d do all they could to cover up the incidents. This was done for two reasons. One, tourists were great for business, and the gods knew they’d take whatever they could get. The second reason, however, was more twisted. The citizens of Fernwick had a secret; an ancient, terrible, dark secret, which was the reason they lived in fear, and most importantly, the reason no one went out at night.

So, when a lone traveler with no other options stumbled into town one evening, he was in for a surprise.

Though this traveler had never been to Fernwick in person, the sight that greeted him as he entered the local tavern starkly contrasted the rumors he’d heard. The room was bursting at the seams with people, all drinking and celebrating noisily; every table was filled.

_“The town’s dead at night,”_ a young merchant had warned him in Atlasdam. _“No one will even answer their doors.”_

The traveler stood in the doorway for a moment, eyes sweeping over the room in confusion. Had he come to the wrong town? No, he was certain he hadn’t. He’d double-checked his map on the way here, triple-checked it even. This was definitely Fernwick.

If he hadn’t heard the same stories from so many people, he’d think he’d been fooled. But all those stories had come from different, unconnected travelers. There was no way this had been planned.

After some thought, the traveler decided he didn’t care much, as long as he had a good meal and somewhere to stay for the night. Taking one of the few empty seats at the bar, he was greeted by the barkeep -- a portly man with rugged skin and a bushy moustache.

“There’s a new face,” he boomed. “What brings a young lad like yerself here on this fine evenin’?”

“Just staying overnight,” the traveler replied casually, brushing leftover dirt off his clothes. 

“Well ye’ve come at the right time,” he said jovially, sliding a generous mug of mead across the counter. “Drinks are on the house tonight!” At his words, many of the visitors gave a drunken cheer, raising their glasses.

The traveler cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? And what has everyone in such high spirits?” He took a tentative sip of his drink, before grimacing and setting the mug down. Though it had been nearly a year since he reached drinking age, he’d yet to find an alcoholic beverage he could stomach.

A nearby woman, whose face was nearly the same color as her crimson hair, slung an arm sloppily around his shoulder. “‘Cause it’s gone! That ruddy curse is finally gone!” Her loud declaration elicited more cries of celebration from the crowd.

“Curse?” The word flew from the man’s mouth as he disentangled himself from the woman. “I mean -- I’d heard rumors, but I didn’t think there was actually any truth to them. This town is really cursed?”

“ _Was_ ,” the barkeep corrected him, handing another drink out to a newcomer. “And it’s as real as the ground I’m standin’ on.”

“Awful, it was,” the drunken woman chimed in. “Monsters attackin’, fire, people droppin’ left an’ right, and none of it our fault!”

“We’ve been tryin’ for years to get rid of it,” the barkeep explained. “And just a few days ago we finally found a crew o’ unsuspectin’ travelers brave enough to go lookin’.”

“Stupid, more like,” a man put in from a nearby table, sending his comrades erupting into laughter.

“Wait, I’m confused,” the traveler interrupted, fascinated. “How does one ‘get rid’ of a curse? Did it take some sort of physical form?”

“Aye.” An elderly man missing a few teeth joined the conversation from a couple seats down. “It looked like treasure. Gold, jewelry, books, all cooped up in a wee stone chest. Been down in the town waterways long as I can remember.”

The traveler bit his lip, deep in thought. “Well, if you all knew where it was, what was to stop you from taking it somewhere else, or destroying it entirely?”

“‘S not that easy, my friend.” The barkeep shook his head gravely. “We tried that, believe me, but the moment anyone got near the thing, a load o’ monsters popped up. Nasty things.”

“Nobody made it out in one piece,” the redheaded woman added, for dramatic effect.

“Besides, none o’ us knew what’d happen if we touched it. Maybe it’d make the curse worse, or somethin’ like that. We weren’t takin’ any chances.”

“But that don’t matter no more, now do it?” the old man said, grinning wickedly. “It’s gone!”

“Hey, Gil, you’re the one who convinced ‘em to go, weren’t ya?” The woman gestured towards a young man at a nearby table, who was downing his drink.

Setting his mug down with a _thunk_ , the man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking. “Yeah, I did.” Face clean and hair neatly trimmed, he definitely appeared more well-groomed than his companions, but his behavior matched that of the filthiest drunkards in the room. “I caught this scholar in the library, that morning. Nearly talked my ear off, he did. Said he was a professor from Atlasdam, no less! You’d think after all that big talk he’d be smart enough to know what was up, but the moment I mentioned treasure he was practically begging me to tell him where to go.” The others around the table snickered like a group of schoolgirls, and the traveler began feeling slightly sick.

“Do you remember any of the other members of this group?” he asked. 

The man shrugged carelessly, but a sober girl nearby spoke up. “I think there was a girl, too.” She inspected her food meticulously before popping it into her mouth. Noticing the traveler’s eyes still on her, she rolled her own and continued talking with her mouth full. “A merchant, by the looks of it, and as annoying as they come. She actually had the nerve to try and sell me the chest.” She snorted at the thought. “I didn’t buy, obviously.”

“Does it matter, who they were?” the drunken woman said, yawning. “The point is, they took the curse away, and the bloody beast along with it!”

Her words had an instantaneous effect on those close enough to hear. Faces darkened, conversations died down, and several shushes sounded from the previously rambunctious crowd.

“You’d do well not to speak of that creature, Eva,” the barkeep, who was suddenly somber as can be, admonished her.

“An’ why in the hells not?” She threw up her arms in exasperation. “‘S not our problem anymore, is it? Are you all really still afraid of that thing?”

“That thing doesn’t belong to this world, lass,” the old man hissed, his wrinkled face appearing ghostlike in the low light. “You’ve no idea what it could be capable of. The sooner we forget about it, the sooner it forgets about _us_.”

Food suddenly didn’t sound so good anymore. The traveler weighed his options; if the situation was as dire as it sounded, he needed to move quickly. “Do you know where this group was headed next?” he leaned forward to ask the barkeep.

The man shook his head. “I don’t. But Ern might.” He gestured behind him to a man the traveler hadn’t even noticed originally. Setting down the glass he was polishing, he turned around to face them, a look of dejection in his tired eyes.

“Stillsnow,” he said, quietly. “I heard ‘em plannin’ before they left.”

“You don’t actually plan on followin’ that lot, do ya?” the barkeep asked incredulously. “Now that they have that treasure on ‘em, they’re nothin’ but bad news. A kid like yerself shouldn’t be gettin’ mixed up in that kinda thing.”

The traveler shrugged, brushing a strand of blond hair out of his eyes. “What can I say? I have a taste for adventure.” Then, resting his arms on the bar and looking at both men intently, he spoke again. “Now, tell me more about that beast.”

* * *

“Evorick Worthingston.” Agnes spat out the name like it was an unsavory piece of meat. “A once-famous magician, and my great-great uncle.”

“Not just a magician,” Cyrus, who was practically bouncing in his chair, chimed in. “In fact, he was actually a well renowned scholar and researcher of the arcane arts as a young adult. Then, as his life went on, he began practicing magic firsthand.”

Agnes let an uncomfortable pause hang in the air, waiting to see if he was done. “Yes,” she finally said, curtly. “That is, until he went missing around a century ago.”

“What?” Tressa, who was listening intently while running her hand through a sleepy Linde’s coat, burst out. “As in, he just vanished?”

“Tressa, weren’t you there when Cyrus told this story the first time?” Primrose asked, amusement dancing in her emerald eyes. She sat cross-legged by the fire -- a smaller, neater one compared to the kitchen’s -- whittling at a piece of wood with her dagger.

“Yeah, well it was kinda late and I might’ve drifted off a few times. What’s it to you?”

Ophilia laughed softly over her cup of steaming cocoa. After a brief breakfast, Cyrus and Agnes were quick to sit her down so they could explain the situation. Meanwhile, H’aanit was in the kitchen with Therion, teaching him her methods of making a simple omelet, and happy shouts could be heard from outside as Olberic tested Alfyn and Galen’s combined power in a snowball fight. Everything felt so normal, that Ophilia had to keep reminding herself that it wasn’t. In a few days time, the group planned on heading to Stillsnow without them, and she still didn’t know why.

“Were there any leads linked to Evorick’s disappearance?” she asked.

“Not many,” Cyrus replied, folding his arms. Clearly he already knew this case inside out. “But before his disappearance, he was rumored to be experimenting with dark magic.”

“Never a good sign,” Tressa retorted. “No offense, Prim.”

The dancer merely shook her head, eyes still focused on her busy hands. “I’m with you.”

Cyrus nodded solemnly. “That’s all historians know --”

“But not all I know,” Agnes interrupted. "For decades, my family has been trying to find the source of his disappearance. Why he left, what he was up to, and the meaning of what he left behind.” She set a book down onto the table -- the same book she’d linked the chest to before. “This here’s a book we’ve compiled from generation to generation of what little we can find left of him. It’s mostly journal pages, but there’s also research papers and study notes.”

“Which I’m quite eager to have a look at,” Cyrus added, and Agnes flashed him an irritated glance. Ophilia had to stop herself from smiling -- she was frankly surprised at how composed Cyrus was acting around a piece of history he had yet to peruse.

“From what’s in there, we know that Evorick took a turn for the worse later on in life,” Agnes continued, moving the book further away from the professor.

“So this chest belonged to him?” Ophilia gestured to the item in question, sitting innocently on the middle of the table.

The woman nodded. “He spoke of it in the last journal page we have. The entry itself doesn’t give much information, but actually having the chest changes things.” She opened the book to a specific page near the end, then slid it across the table to Ophilia. “Read it for yourself.”

The cleric took it in her hands and smoothed over the wrinkled parchment. It appeared to have been written in a hurry -- the handwriting was stilted and messy, and there were ink smears everywhere. That being said, it was still legible enough for her to read.

_4/13_

_In a few days time, I will be dead. The authorities are deciding the nature of my fate as I write this. But I cannot afford to be melancholy. I will die the same man I’ve always been -- one of status and pride._

_Even now, on the edge of the terrible precipice we call death, I have hope. All my greatest treasures have been hidden away in a chest. Beautiful handiwork, really, that chest. The merchant from whom I bought it from declared it to be “carved from the Highlands themselves.” Though I’m not sure it’s true, I appreciate the theatrics._

_I will not disclose the location of the chest. I don’t want to make it too simple for whoever finds this, do I? But I will have you know, having access to my possessions will come with a price. Whether you’re willing to pay that price or not is up to you, dear reader, but unraveling the secrets of what I’ve left behind will be well worth it, in my opinion._

_Everything you need is in the chest. My legacy will live on, one way or another._

_Farewell, dear reader, and may the gods never eradicate the mark I’ve left on Orsterra._

_.E.W_

At the bottom of the page, as they’d seen it before, was an amateurish drawing of the chest that sat before them.

“Wow,” Tressa remarked in Ophilia’s ear, and she jumped. In her focus, she hadn’t noticed the merchant lean over her shoulder to read with her. “For all that talk about what this guy _could_ do, he sure couldn’t draw.”

“I’m sure he had other things to worry about,” Cyrus said, almost defensively.

“A few of my older relatives went searching for the chest in their early years,” Agnes said, “but found nothing. I, myself, thought it sounded like bad news, so when I inherited the book I took to studying his notes rather than chasing after treasure.” She tilted her head. “But I am curious as to where you stumbled across it.”

“Fernwick,” Ophilia answered. “We found it in the waterways.”

“Someone tipped Prof off at the library,” Tressa added, walking back over to sit with Linde. “Local legend or something.”

Agnes narrowed her dark eyes. “That’s strange. If it was somewhere as accessible as the waterways, and it seemed to be common knowledge, what was stopping anyone from going and collecting it?”

“Well, there _were_ monsters.”

“But nothing anyone with a bit of fighting experience couldn’t handle,” Cyrus said, frowning.

“Well, there are certain . . . rumors about that town.” An idea seemed to be forming in Agnes’s head. “Rumors of the misfortune and incidents that plague it. Maybe --”

“It had to do with the chest?” Tressa interrupted.

“What cursed town wouldn’t want to pawn the source of their troubles onto some unknowing travelers?” Primrose joined in darkly.

“We certainly hadn’t heard any rumors like that,” the professor mused. “Is it possible we were tricked?”

“Nobody would buy the chest,” Tressa said in sudden realization, looking up. “Nobody would buy the chest when I tried to sell it in the square!” Her voice rose in indignancy. “That’s why! It was because everyone knew about the curse, didn’t they?”

“It’s starting to sound that way,” Agnes replied, making a sound of disgust. “Of all the selfish, deceitful things to do . . .”

All of a sudden, everything made sense. The townspeople’s reluctance to buy Tressa’s wares, the lack of doctors willing to help Alfyn, and the clear discomfort the innkeeper showed as they left -- it was all because of their newfound connection to the chest.

The innkeeper. The thought suddenly came to the cleric’s head. He had to have known what was going on, and yet he helped Alfyn anyways. He still treated them like he’d treat any other guest, and, Flame bless him, without his help, their apothecary might not have been with them today. Ophilia made a quick mental note to send a prayer of thanks his way later.

“I think I get it,” she finally spoke up. “We were tricked into taking the chest. But what about that journal page, what it said about the chest, led you to believe _we’re_ ‘cursed?’”

In the back of her head, a faint memory teased her. One of her and Lianna, dashing through the cathedral halls, barefoot and young enough to get away with it. Their squeals of laughter echoed off the walls as Lianna -- who always played the evil swamp witch -- threatened to curse Ophilia with a spare bit of kindling she deemed her “wand.” The cleric could remember to this day the sheer commitment her sister had to her roles in their pretend games, from the way she’d purposely mess up her hair to the high pitched screech she’d perfected. (“If it weren’t for the church, you’d make quite the talented actor,” she told Lianna years later.) Of course, as soon as he found out about them, the archbishop -- No, _Father_ \-- put a stop to these games immediately, but that didn’t tarnish the memories they’d made. Some of the earliest memories they had together.

Then again, Ophilia had to remind herself, the curse they were talking about was definitely more serious than the pretend one that threatened to turn her toes into frogs many years ago. Though the memory made her smile, it also reminded her of how much she missed home.

Cyrus answered quickly. “Well, after reading that entry, I immediately began checking everything we’d gained from the chest for dark magic.” He looked sheepish. “Something I should have done from the very beginning, I regret to say.”

“I didn’t even know you could do that,” Primrose said, shaking her head. “You really are full of surprises, Professor.”

“Well, yes, it’s actually quite simple once you understand the basics, really -- but that isn’t the point.” He shook his head, preventing what probably would’ve become a five minute tangent. “The point is, every single item had at least some trace of magic in them, but the books we studied were quite literally radiating dark magic. After finding that out, I --” He stopped short, suddenly going pink. All the energy seemed to drain out of him in an instant, and his eyes flew from Ophilia to the floor beneath him.

The cleric tilted her head. “You what, Cyrus?”

He cleared his throat, as if he were about to speak, but didn’t. It was as if Alephan himself had decided to silence him. 

“Oh, for Flame’s sake, Cyrus,” Agnes scoffed, before turning to Ophilia. “He checked your body for dark magic.”

Tressa let out a short laugh. “While she was sleeping?” she teased. “Ooh, you’re such a creep, Prof.” By the fire, a playful smirk danced on Primrose’s lips.

The pink hue that had overtaken Cyrus’s face deepened into an impressive scarlet. It was funny how, out of all the situations he’d remained composed in, this was the one to break him. “I -- I didn’t have a choice! It was imperative that I knew as soon as possible! And I’ll have you know that I was _extremely_ respectful --”

“I can vouch for him in that case,” Agnes cut in, a wry smile on her face. “He was scared to death of touching her.”

“-- And it wasn’t just her! I checked everyone, and you _know_ it --”

His flustered spiel was cut off again by a snort from Ophilia. Everyone’s heads whipped around to stare at her. Maybe it was her defense mechanism against all the scary things happening, or maybe it was just because embarrassment was quite the look on Cyrus, but all of a sudden the cleric dissolved into laughter, bringing a hand up to her mouth. Tressa and Agnes joined after a moment, and even Primrose’s smile was wide enough to see from across the room. Cyrus in the meantime, just stared awkwardly at the lot of them, a look of pure helplessness painted across his pretty face.

“Oh, Cyrus,” Ophilia finally said after the giggling died down, “did you really expect me to be angry about such a thing?” 

She promptly ignored the look Primrose gave her that clearly said _“Of course_ you _wouldn’t be.”_

Cyrus opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly lost.

“It was necessary,” the cleric further reassured him, trying her best to slip back into solemnity for his sake. “There is no need to worry about it any further. Please, go on.”

“Right, right,” he blustered, fixing his hair as the color faded from his cheeks. “Well, anyways, the only people among us I detected dark magic in were you and myself, further confirming that the books were the only thing cursed.”

“You didn’t detect anything in Alfyn?” Ophilia asked incredulously. “Even after being directly attacked by the Nightmare itself?”

The professor shook his head, some of his former composed self slipping back into his voice as he replied. “Believe me, I checked multiple times just in case, but found nothing.”

“I never thought you’d be one to believe in curses, Prof,” Tressa said, giving Linde belly rubs while looking at him curiously.

“Yes, well, that’s merely a simple term we’re using to describe a complex thing,” Cyrus explained. “It’s not a ‘curse’ like the kind you’d read about in fairy tales. It’s more of a direct implant of dark magic, and an advanced one at that. Easy to detect but not to extract. I’ve read loads on the subject, of course,” he tacked on, as if everyone already didn’t know. “Until we figure out how to remove it, the darkness will keep eating away at us from the inside out.”

A pit formed in Ophilia’s stomach. “And then?”

“Well, hopefully we won’t have to find out,” Cyrus replied, giving her a tight smile. He sounded surprisingly nonchalant, as if this were another anomaly to study, and not a dangerous threat to his life. “We believe this might be the source of your constant fatigue and fainting spells.”

_Well, that would explain that, wouldn’t it?_

Everyone in the room was quiet. Ophilia could feel their eyes on her, but she just stared down at the faded book in front of her, letting it all sink in. The idea of some sort of darkness festering inside her was off-putting, to say the least, but it being the cause of her exhaustion did make sense. And over the course of their journey together, she had learned to trust Cyrus; who was she to question that trust now? When had he ever steered her wrong?

 _He steered you wrong when he took you to find that chest in the first place,_ the cutting voice in the back of her head whispered, but she ignored it. That wasn’t his fault. They’d been deceived.

“So, you want to stay?” Ophilia asked, finally looking up at the professor.

He nodded seriously. “Combining Agnes’s records with whatever lies in those books, we may be able to find a solution to all of this. He _did_ say everything we needed was in the chest.” Meeting all of their eyes in turn, he continued. “I don’t like it, but I don’t see a better way to go about this.”

“I understand,” Ophilia agreed. “And we wouldn’t want to hold the others back while we try to find a cure.”

“We’ve already said we’d be more than happy to stay,” Tressa protested, but the cleric shook her head.

“You all have your own agendas, and they’re just as important as ours.”

“With any luck, we’ll have found the cure before you get back,” Agnes said, giving them a kind but weary smile.

“Indeed.” Cyrus nodded. “We’ll work as quickly as we can. After all, Ophilia has a duty to carry out.”

 _Oh._ Ophilia felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. The Kindling. How could she have forgotten about the Kindling? When their path to Goldshore had been blocked by a severe caravan mishap, they’d decided to attend to their business in the north instead and return later, but who knew what could happen now? Both Cyrus and Agnes seemed fairly confident they’d figure things out quickly, but what if they didn’t? What if months from now, Ophilia was bedridden, feeling her consciousness slowly drain away, knowing that she failed . . . And what about Lianna and the arch-- _Father_?

 _No,_ she chastised herself. _Don’t think that way. That won’t happen._

“Right,” she finally murmured, emotions and thoughts scattered.

“I have a concern,” Primrose spoke up. She’d finally finished her project; a rough carving of Linde’s face. “Do you think that creature -- the Nightmare -- could be related to this ‘curse’ in any way?”

All heads turned to Agnes, and the woman was quiet for quite some time before answering. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Seeing as to how it’s been haunting my family in particular, it’d make sense for it to be connected to Evorick. Maybe we’ll find something as we study. Hopefully we will. That’d truly be an answer to prayer.”

“Anyone want an omelet?”

Therion -- the source of the question -- stood in the doorway with a steaming plate in hand. H’aanit lingered behind him, face alight with what could only be called pride. 

“What?” the thief asked when greeted with nothing but stares. “Am I interrupting something?”

Ophilia shook her head, nearly laughing again in spite of the situation. Always laughter and smiles, even in the face of danger . . . Maybe she and Alfyn really _were_ alike. “I’d love one, Therion.”

* * *

When the eve before the group’s departure arrived at last, everyone had come to terms with their decision to split up. Some, of course, took it easier than others; Primrose was so zealously fixated on whatever awaited her in Stillsnow that, though at times she still looked at Agnes with a cold glint in her eyes, she didn’t fret much about Cyrus and Ophilia being left in her care -- plus, the situation gave her plenty of ammo to tease the latter with.

Others weren’t so easy to convince. H’aanit, though she had impending business of her own in Stillsnow, assured Ophilia several times that if they ever changed their minds and needed her help, she was willing to stay. She was as firm and stoic as ever, but the underlying protectiveness she felt for them was both noticeable and heartwarming. 

Tressa had practically begged for them to let her stay. “Traveling’s just not the same without Phili!” she declared, sticking her chin up childishly. 

Ophilia felt for her. If she was being honest with herself, she still didn’t like the idea of it all. Of course, she knew it was necessary, and they’d done little splits in the past to cover more ground, but this one felt more . . . _significant_ , somehow. Like they were saying goodbye forever, though that obviously wasn’t true. She was glad Cyrus would be with her, of course -- she’d be lying if she said the thought didn’t bring her a small, selfish rush of excitement -- but to do it all without Tressa’s energy, H’aanit’s loyalty, Olberic’s leadership? The thought seemed daunting.

But Ophilia wasn’t the kind of person to give into those things.

Convincing Tressa took some work. A few hours of unsuccessful reasoning passed until Olberic finally won her over with a remark about the team needing her “fighting spirit” more than ever now that Alfyn was injured.

And speaking of the apothecary, the last problem they all faced was what to do about him; there were bound to be complications whether he stayed or left. This predicament sparked a long-winded discussion, until they finally decided to gather around the table after dinner to discuss Alfyn’s fate.

The man in question, to no one’s shock, was insistent on going, claiming that he could “barely feel a thing” and would “be right as rain with a little rest.”

“Ophilia has to stay,” he pointed out to their skeptical expressions. “And there’s no way y’all are makin’ this trip without a healer.”

“Still, I knowe not if that is wise,” H’aanit replied, arms crossed. Linde sat at her side, mirroring her partner’s troubled expression. “Thou art weak still, no matter how thou trieth to hiden it. Would one night of sleep truly cure such an ailment?”

“You haven’t been able to battle, either,” Cyrus added, frowning. “It would be reckless to send you on a perilous journey like this when you can hardly lift your own axe.”

“So I’ll hang back at the inn while y’all go about your adventures,” he persisted. “And with five of you to protect me, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“I don’t think you’ve thought this through.” Therion’s hard voice cut in. The thief leaned back in his chair, legs propped up on the table. Agnes stared at him with obvious reproach, but chose not to say anything, her hand resting absentmindedly on Galen’s shoulder as the boy wolfed up the rest of his dinner. Therion bit into an apple, his third that night, then continued. “What if, say, you get attacked by a horde and get overwhelmed, genius? Remember what happened in the cave? You can’t expect to be completely safe at all times -- that’s just naive.”

“If I say I’m fine, then I’m _fine_.” Alfyn’s patience was clearly wearing thin. “Do ya think I wanna let myself be babied forever?”

Ophilia, who was sweeping the floor (Agnes had wanted to do it, but she’d insisted), felt herself silently relating, though she didn’t dare say it aloud.

“It’s not just about your injuries, medicine man,” Therion continued impatiently. “Have you considered that the very thing that caused them could hunt you down?” He looked around at the group, expecting an answer and not receiving one. “Haven’t any of you thought about that? What if this Nightmare just decides ‘screw it’ and offs him? Gods know it got close enough already.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” Agnes said. “As far as we know, Alfyn isn’t cursed. Nor is he a member of my family. I doubt, with a combination of the two here, it’ll bother following you to Stillsnow.”

“Then why did it attack him in the first place?” Primrose asked, suddenly siding with Therion. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“We’ve been over this.” The woman rubbed her head. “We don’t know.”

“Perhaps it was because of his affiliation with Ophilia and I,” Cyrus speculated. “It may have mistaken him for one of us, and if our theory about its association with the curse is true, that was why it attacked.”

“Personally, I find myself agreeing with Alfyn,” Olberic said, taking everyone by surprise. He countered their varied expressions with a firm one of his own. “His abilities are a crucial part of our team. And if he believes he can go on with us, I say we trust his judgement.”

“I think so, too,” Tressa piped up. “Alf’s a tough’un. And if the going gets rough, I’ll be there to back him up.” She jabbed a thumb at her chest, smiling confidently as if she were the strongest mercenary in the world.

Alfyn grinned at her words, but Therion pulled his legs off the table and sat up straight. “Don’t you see what he’s doing?” he snapped. “He’s got you all under his -- his damned _sweet talk_ spell. The guy’d let himself bleed out as long as he got to slap a bandage on someone while doing it!”

“If there’s someone to be helped, I’ve vowed to be the one to do the helpin’,” Alfyn shot back heatedly.

“Then stay!” He threw his hands in the air. “There’s plenty of ‘helpin’’ to be done here, too. Two of us are _cursed_ , for Flame’s sake! I’m sure you could find _some_ way to be useful to them.”

“Why are you actin’ like this?” Alfyn asked, looking baffled. “Why do you care all the sudden? You can’t be _that_ worried about me --”

Therion stood up, so quickly and abruptly that it brought them all to a halt. His face was expressionless -- dangerously so. “I’m not worried about _you_ ,” he spat the words out like icy daggers at Alfyn, putting emphasis on each one. “Everyone here has a job to do. You’ve already given us enough trouble with your injuries, and if you plan to keep slowing us down because of some martyrdom complex, it’s better we leave you.” And before anyone could react, he was gone, ascending the stairs swiftly and silently.

For a while, no one said anything; the thief’s words had cut them all to the bone. Even the broom in Ophilia’s hand came to a halt. Slowly, everyone turned to look at Alfyn.

He stared down at the table, his fists clenched. The low firelight cast shadows across his face, making him appear colder and darker than the apothecary they all knew.

“I’m goin’,” he finally muttered, voice so unusually severe it was startling. “And none of you are gonna stop me.”

And that was the end of that discussion.

* * *

Agnes knew how to read people. She considered it one of her gods-given gifts. Of course, her history as both a barkeep and a sellsword, blowing through two marriages, and having four kids of her own probably helped. It had always come easily to her. Whether it was buying some fruit from a kind merchant on the street or serving a suspicious character at the tavern, she’d have a good idea of their life story by the time their conversation was over.

These new travelers were no different. Members like Alfyn and Tressa gave off a similar warmth -- they were the kind of people she’d learned to keep close over the years. Though they had their individual motives and traits, at their core they were good, and that was all there was to it.

Other members were more complex. For every traveler who gave off warmth and kindness, there was one who gave off darkness and solitude as well. Agnes knew it all too well. After years of working with the lowest of the low, she’d learned how to tell when someone had lost something. When someone had given up hope. It was something you saw more often than not; empty eyes and cold hands clinging onto their drink, filled with such an absence of anything you felt sorry for them. Her days at the tavern were long past, but she could never forget.

The thief -- Therion, she thought it was -- possessed many of these attributes. He sported an unkempt appearance; messy hair, ragged clothes, and rugged skin sporting all sorts of bruises and scars. One striking eye, colder than the deepest parts of the Frostlands, and an iron bangle around his wrist that seemed to hold him prisoner -- this boy was bad news, plain as day. She’d caught him stealing from her kitchen the first day he was there.

But he was so _young_ , she mused to herself sadly. Most of the washups she’d met in the tavern so long ago were old and weary, their lives on the downward slope, but Therion was practically still a boy. What could have happened to him at so young an age to lead him to become the scruffy, apathetic thief she now had the pleasure of knowing?

He wasn’t completely empty, like others she’d seen, but instead seemed to be filled with a reckless indifference to everything around him -- an aversion to feeling, almost. A reluctance to trust. Agnes saw it in the way he rejected the food she offered, instead resorting to one of the innumerable apples he seemed to possess. She saw it in the way he rarely had anything nice to say, only opening his mouth to offer a scathing comment or criticism. She saw it in the way he flinched at the touch of others.

But there was something else to the boy, deep down. The ghost of a once-whole person. One who would lean over Ophilia’s shoulder and advise her what card to play next, or spend hours in the kitchen with H’aanit, obediently taking her advice as she helped him prepare meals. Yes, deep down in that cold center there was a warm core. It had surfaced earlier that night, flaming in that lone eye of his as he tried to convince Alfyn to stay. He’d fooled the others with his harsh cover-up afterwards, but Agnes knew better. She’d seen it too many times before.

The woman had noticed the same phenomenon in similar members, such as Primrose and Olberic. Though tragedy had worn them down to weathered shells of their former selves, the warmth their companions gave off seemed to soften them. Interesting.

Agnes chuckled softly as she settled into bed. If only she’d been able to travel with others when she was younger rather than watch from behind the bartop.

She blew out the candle, and as she laid down her mind drifted to the two members she’d been tasked with babysitting. Ophilia was everything she’d heard and more -- gentle, selfless, and kind. She looked fragile and ethereal, like if you made one false move she’d crumble into pieces before your eyes. But there was definitely more to the cleric than that. After all, Agnes reminded herself, Ophilia was the one who’d fought off the Nightmare; something she hadn’t been able to do in the ten years it’d tormented her and her family. No, there was a strength underneath all that softness. The young Flamebearer had something to fight for, and was not to be trifled with.

And then there was Cyrus. He was, in her frank opinion, rather annoying. Since the travelers arrived, he’d surpassed even Tressa as the chattiest member. Agnes found herself tuning his rambles out more often than not, and to her amusement, she’d discovered that many of the others did too. But he was well-meaning, and intelligent as they come. She hadn’t expected him to know much about Evorick at all, much less know his life story by heart. Agnes had met her fair share of these scholarly types over the years, but none quite this dedicated. Though he was attractive, and had no doubt broken many a young girl’s heart in his day, the man seemed to only have eyes for one thing -- knowledge.

 _And Ophilia._ In the dark, she smiled. Over days of studying them, she’d deduced that the only thing that could pry Cyrus from his studies was the young Flamebearer. He constantly set down his book mid-session to go check on her health, fretting whenever she got a headache and monitoring her during meals to make sure she was eating enough. Agnes figured he was acting more like a mother than she was herself.

Despite this, there seemed to be a genuine connection between the two of them. Though their conversations were formal, they were filled with warm pleasantries, and on occasion, even teasing. Ophilia was one of the few who could sit through the professor’s lectures, not only staying awake but providing questions and commentary -- she truly was an angel, that one. Out of everyone in the group, Cyrus seemed to gravitate towards her most.

But none of that mattered. Anyone could take a look at how Cyrus stared at Ophilia, deeply and utterly enamored like the lovestruck fool he was, and know instantly.

She figured he didn’t even know it himself -- he seemed to be hopeless when it came to matters of the heart -- which made it even more entertaining to watch. Even she had been young and in love once, and though her married life had been far from glamorous, she still felt a certain nostalgia for it.

Ophilia’s side of things was harder to read. She spoke with everyone so kindly and easily that whether she reciprocated or not was a mystery. Her emotions seemed to be carefully metered, making it hard to know what she was thinking. But she did seem to genuinely enjoy the professor’s companionship, so at least he had that going for him.

Agnes rolled over to face the boy curled up at her side, who was most likely pretending to sleep for her sake, and worry began to drive away the lighthearted thoughts.

Her family had faced enough misfortune without a curse involved; what if something went awry? She now felt strangely responsible for all these people. If anything were to happen to Cyrus or Ophilia, how would the rest of the group take it?

No. She shook her head ever so slightly as she brushed Galen’s hair out of his face. She wouldn’t fail. This wasn’t just for them -- it was for the boy in front of her, too. Not only was this an opportunity to solve the puzzle her family had been piecing together for generations, it was an opportunity to learn more about the Nightmare. How to get rid of it, even. She felt her resolve strengthening. Galen deserved to have a childhood that was free of that creature, and she’d do everything in her power to make that future a reality.

 _This is for you, my boy,_ she vowed. Then she wrapped a warm arm around her son, closing her eyes and breathing steadily until the two of them drifted off into a secure sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thankfully, I didn't take two months to update again (I'll promise not to do that too often haha.) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I've been getting a lot of inspiration from some other Octopath fics I've been reading. This fandom is so talented!   
> But yeah, I finally gave that town from the beginning a name because, I'll be frank with you, it wasn't significant when I was first writing this LOL. We love changing our plot eighteen times.  
> Anyways, a huge thank you to everyone who's still here, and I hope you're looking forward to the next chapter!  
> (Also I changed the Alfyn & Therion tag to Alfyn/Therion, we're going full send guys. 😳)


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